


Lonesome Dreams

by irhinoceri



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Books and Comics references, Children of Characters, Cousland Backstory, Dubious Consent, Dysfunctional Relationships, F/F, F/M, Gen, King Alistair, Mostly Gen, Multi, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition, Queen Cousland, Reconciliation, Ritual Sex, The Calling, Threesome - F/F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-03-16 18:47:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 102,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13642305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irhinoceri/pseuds/irhinoceri
Summary: "Are you happy?" -- Cousland has trouble dealing with her traumatic past, the events of the Blight, and life in retirement as the Princess-Consort/Hero of Ferelden. Her complicated feelings for Alistair and Morrigan and her fear of the Calling erode the life she worked so hard to build and the happily-ever-after she was willing to do anything to achieve. Takes place Post Inquisition with flashbacks to Origins, Awakening, and Witch Hunt.





	1. Travels

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Lord Huron's "[Lonesome Dreams](https://youtu.be/xFcxnQ0nsts)"

* * *

_9:42 Dragon_

* * *

 

She spread herself out on the ground, going down first to one knee and then the next, crawling until she was belly-flat in the dirt. With cold rock under her, one ear pressed to the stone, she exhaled slowly and closed her eyes.

Her hound whined and pranced near her, bothered by her strange behavior, trying to draw her up, but she ignored him.

She lay very still for a long time. A chill crept through her, climbing up from the rock to cling to her insides, making her bones feel hard and old. But after a time her blood warmed in her veins, her pulse quickened, and she felt very close to unlocking something.

She had never lain and listened to the earth before. It was something said to be a peculiarity of homesick surface dwarves, but she was no dwarf.

It felt right, though. It felt necessary.

She could sense them, teeming underground, far far below. Digging, always digging. Searching, always searching, seeking out the dragon’s song.

She could hear it too, if she listened very, very closely.

There was no sound more beautiful. No sound so terrible, indescribable, old.

 _Beautiful music,_ the Mother had called it, lamenting its loss.

She thought she might understand them a little.

But when she pushed herself off the ground, pulling herself to her feet, shaking the dirt from her hair, reaching out a hand to be licked…. It faded. It had been no more than a wisp of an illusory sound and now it was gone.

The only song was the winds through the pines and birds calling, the whine of her dog, the—

She paused, turning her head. There was singing. Human singing.

She got up and walked to the edge of her camp on the outcropping of rock and looked down at the road below. A little ways off a man was walking, pack slung over his back, singing a Ferelden song as he went.

It was not common to hear Ferelden songs in this part of the world, and her heart leapt at the sound. She didn’t even know why. She had never much cared for this particular tavern tune, found its lyrics bawdy and uninspiring.

But the man’s voice was good, words carrying clearly on the breeze as he hit each note with practiced ease.

“You there,” she called, and he stopped, clutching at a dagger. He looked sharply around, going from pleasant singing to a fighting stance in an instant. When he looked up and saw her, she said, “Hello.”

“Good day to you,” the man replied, relaxing his stance and lowering the knife. “You startled me, good woman.”

She leaned on the hilt of her sword, strapped to her hip, and stood casually leaning, head tilted. It was pose she had assumed often… non-threatening enough to invite conversation but dangerous enough to intimidate.

“What is a Ferelden bard doing all the way out here?”

“You are mistaken, I am no bard,” he said.

“I heard you singing.”

“Any man may sing.”

She smiled. “Fair enough. But you are Ferelden, are you not? Your accent gives you away.”

“Yes, as does yours,” he said, sheathing his weapon. “We are both a long way from home. I greet you, fellow traveller.”

“Stay a moment,” she said, turning to make her way down the craggy hillside that lead down from her camp to the road.

“As you wish.”

If he thought she were a bandit waiting to rob him, he was at least interested enough to tarry and to take his chances against her with his dagger. It was no doubt a poisoned blade. She had known many a fighter who preferred small, quick weapons. These weapons were almost always coated in some poison or another, to give them an advantage.

“What news of Ferelden?” she asked, when she was on level ground. Her hound scampered after her, and the man looked alarmed at first to see the giant dog bounding towards him.

But he only said, “Ah, a mabari. I haven’t seen one of those since I left our homeland. Tell me, which part of Ferelden do you hail from? I’d guess the storm coast, by the sound of it.”

“Very good,” she said. “I did not think we had such a distinct accent. You I would place near Redcliffe?”

“Oh, close enough. I grew up on an farm in the hinterlands, not near any village, but we rode into Redcliffe to sell our crops. And you, a fisherman’s daughter?”

“Something like that.”

“And what brings a fisherman’s daughter so far from her father’s shores?”

“Perhaps I would tell you if you admitted that you are a bard.”

He shrugged with a smile. “I know a tale or two. I am but a humble minstrel, though. My name is Gregory, at your service. And you are…?”

“Oh, my name doesn’t matter. I am a Grey Warden. You may call me Warden, if you like.”

“Ahhhhh, a Grey Warden. Well that does explain some things.”

“Yes.”

“I do not suppose you were there for that whole business in Orlais?” He grimaced, and she raised an eyebrow.

“It depends. How long ago was this business?”

“Oh, _the_ business. With the Grey Wardens and the demons and the… well, by your expression, you haven’t been in the south for a very long time.”

“I have not. I did ask for news, didn’t I? Come, there’s no need to be so cagey. I would like to walk with you, learn what goes on at home.”

“Well,” he chuckled, “I would never turn down the company of such a formidable woman. And I do have a few stories to share. A few new songs I am sure you have not heard. But that would require us to be headed in the same direction, would it not? And where are you going?”

She told him the name of a town several miles to the west, where she had been headed to meet a mage. “Ah,” he said, “we’re in luck, then. I am going there too.”

“This road does not lead in many other directions, so I understand,” she observed.

“Too true. Well, where should I start? How long have you been away? What news have you heard since? I must have an idea, so I can never narrow it down.”

“Tell me of the King,” she said, glancing away with practiced indifference. “King Alistair.”

“You would indeed have been long away if you meant any other,” he laughed. “I can’t say there is any news of the King, beside that he is still the King. They say he traveled to Redcliffe some months ago to deal with the unrest, but the Inquisitor was there already. The Inquisitor is everywhere. Now there is a tale I could tell you for miles.”

“I have heard of the Inquisition, though I left home before all that,” she responded. “Before the explosion at the Temple of the Sacred Ashes. Of course, news of that spread far and wide very quickly.”

“Well, of course. It you hadn’t left, you’d be dead along with all the other Grey Wardens who went mad across Orlais and Ferelden. Lucky you to be so far away from it all.”

“Surely…. They are not _all_ dead?”

“No, but many are. The rest have joined the Inquisition, along with the mages who rebelled from the circles and tore the hinterlands apart.”

“The Inquisition is making quite a mark on the south.”

“Yes, indeed. Would you like to hear more?”

“I would.”

They walked along the road for the better part of an afternoon, her mabari trotting along beside them. She listened intently and learned a great many things. Towards dusk they neared their destination, and she found that she would miss talking to a fellow Ferelden. It had been a long time.

“Thank you,” she said. “For your company, and the news of home. I will repay you for obliging me.” She reached into her pouch and took out a sovereign, which didn’t hold much value in this land, but would be a generous payment once the bard returned to Ferelden.

“That won’t be necessary,” he said. “I have one more thing for you.”

She tensed, automatically, sensing some hidden meaning behind the words. Perhaps what he had for her was a poisoned dagger in the gut. She took a step back when he reached for something tucked in his jacket, and he smiled chidingly when he noticed her guarded movements.

“A letter, my Queen,” he said, handing her a scroll with an unfamiliar seal upon it.

She sighed.

“I’m not the Queen.”

He smiled, shaking his head. “What good Ferelden boy would not know the face of his Queen? I was only twelve when you and the King toured the land to celebrate your wedding. My family traveled all the way to Redcliffe to catch a glimpse of you. And I never forget a face, especially one so beautiful. That is why they sent me.”

She took the scroll, ignoring his flattery. Beauty was not her concern, and there was only one man whose compliments had ever made her heart flutter. “I only meant that I was never crowned as the Queen; my title is Princess-Consort.”

“A trivial distinction to a farm boy seeing nobility for the first time,” he said, lifting his shoulders in an eloquent shrug. “I am older and wiser now but in my memory you are the Queen. Forgive me.”

“It doesn’t matter, I suppose. Who is this from?” she asked, turning the scroll over in her hands.

“An old friend. Read it. When you have an answer, you may find me at a discreet table in the corner. I await your reply.” He bowed slightly, and then strolled off towards the inn.

She looked at the seal again. It appeared to be an a eye and a sword surrounded by what looked like flames, though the wax was worn from being carried in the messenger’s pocket for miles and miles.

She took it to a low stone wall running alongside the village road, and settled herself down to read. It was a heavy enough scroll, indicating that once unraveled it would go on for quite a while. She cracked open the seal and smiled, murmuring to herself, “Of course, Leliana. Sending a bard as your messenger. You would.”

Leliana wrote on behalf of the Inquisition, of which she was a senior member. Her letter was a neat summary of the fantastical stories the messenger had told her, along with Leliana’s own subtle commentary.

They wanted her help. They wondered if she would come to their stronghold in the Frostbacks, to lend her wisdom and experience. This was a crisis rivaling the earth shattering consequences of a Blight. They _needed_ her.

Leliana spoke of having written to Alistair to ask him where she had gone, but said that he had been “very unhelpful.” She also said that Morrigan had joined the Inquisition, as an Imperial Liason from Orlais, temporarily leaving her position as an advisor to Empress Celene. It was mentioned as one small aside in a sea of other, weighty matters, and what Leliana meant by including it was unclear.

She read the letter three times over, and thought, _Did everyone go completely mad as soon as I left?_

She lowered the paper, gazing out towards the inn, where Leliana’s messenger awaited a reply.

 _I gave up saving the world,_ she thought, gathering her resolve to say _no,_ to say _I can’t,_ to write a polite but firm refusal.

She had her own problems.

She was done solving everyone else’s.

There was nothing special about her, after all, no mystical anchor or destiny. She was just a nobody who survived Ostagar when the rest had fallen. She had happened to be deemed necessary by Flemeth, and had been spared alongside Alistair. That wasn’t destiny, that was chance.

She had killed the archdemon but it was Morrigan who had the soul of an Old God under her control, now… let her join the Inquisition and combat the latest threat, if she wanted to. Her, and her magical child.

She read the letter again.

Leliana pleaded so prettily in her letter, that she was almost tempted to give in. She was the Hero of Ferelden, after all, saving the world was what she _did._

But no. No!

She was not the hero, not anymore, not to herself, not even to Alistair. All that had faded when they kept on living after the final battle was over. Living was supposed to be good, but it had come with a cost, after the night, and what they had done. What she had asked of him.

They were only people with heroes’ masks.

She did not know if she could ever put the mask back on.

She went to the inn and took up pen and paper, writing out a missive to Leliana. Her message was far more succinct than the one which prompted it, but she had never been as verbose as Leliana.

The letter she addressed to the actual leader of the Inquisition, as Leliana claimed to be contacting her old friend on behalf of one Inquisitor Adaar, a Tal-Vashoth woman with a mystical connection to the Veil, whom had been dubbed the Herald of Andraste. (Did the Qunari even worship Andraste? No. That was a new wrinkle. Sten would have had something withering to say about it, no doubt. She had not heard from Sten since he returned to Par Vollen). 

> _I wish that I had helpful information regarding Corypheus, but due to my own limited training during the Blight, I know less of ancient darkspawn lore than do most Wardens. I am engaged in a search of my own. All Grey Wardens who do not fall in battle eventually fall to something known as the Calling, a magic that preys upon our own connection to the Blight and the darkspawn. Rather than such foul magic eventually leading to my death, I have determined to find a way to negate this Calling and save all Wardens from its effects._

She was about to sign it and seal it; her quill hovered over the page, a drop of ink splotching it. ( _Oh how Aldous would scold me,_ a stray part of her memory thought, though the man who had taught her penmanship had been dead these ten years, a victim of Rendon Howe’s treachery, like so many other figures from her childhood).

She shook her head and added,

> _Part of me wishes that I could help your Inquisition more personally because the danger of Corypheus and the Breach approaches the threat of even another Blight. Regardless, I have my own path to follow, and I must uncover a cure for the Calling if I wish to see my king ever again. I beg you, keep his kingdom safe until I can return to his side._

There. Suitably firm yet passingly diplomatic, with a subtle warning not to burn Ferelden to the ground.

She stared long and hard at the page, fighting an internal battle with herself, before she included one final addendum: 

> _Also, please tell Lady Morrigan that I wish her and her son well._
> 
> _Yours,_
> 
> _Esmeralda Cousland_

 

* * *

_9:31 Dragon_

* * *

 

Esmeralda had been given many names in her life.

Her full name was Esmeralda Elissa Aedana Cousland, named for three different long dead Couslands who needed to be given their due. It amused her, bitterly, thinking how they had given her so many Cousland names to make her their own.

Despite all that, she was always only Esme, for short, to her friends and family.

She was “Milady” to the mostly elven servants who worked in the Highever castle, an arrangement so accepted in Ferelden that Esme had not thought twice about the racial dynamics at play until she had left home and met the proud Dalish elves.

Only her father called her Pup, because when she was little she was constantly worrying her mother by romping with the mabari puppies in the kennel, wiggling and laughing with them as if she were one of the litter. He never stopped using that name, not even at the last.

Then, she became a Grey Warden, and briefly, Warden-Commander.

Now, she had earned the title of Hero of Ferelden. And then, Princess-Consort, at least officially, though many forgot the fine distinction and referred to her as Alistair's Queen, if they liked her, or Puppet Master, if they didn’t.

She hated that last one, though Eamon Guerrin hated it more, which gave her some satisfaction.

It was not lost on Esme that it was the Arl-turned-Chancellor who insisted that Esme be given the title of Princess-Consort, not Queen.

He had been careful not to phrase it as any slight against Esme herself, because by that point he had realized that Alistair was impossible to influence against her through direct means.

By the time Eamon accepted that Alistair was dead set on marrying her, instead of a more pliable, well bred, and fertile young noblewoman… he had settled for getting her demoted. He cited the pernicious gossip that circulated among people who didn’t seem to care that she had saved all their sorry lives: that Esmeralda Cousland had orchestrated Alistair’s rise from bastard to king just so she could force him to make good on Cailan’s promise to punish Rendon Howe and his entire family.

“Oh yes,” Esme said, soon after the matter was first brought up. She agitatedly paced the length of the study where Eamon had asked her and Alistair to meet with him. “That’s my favorite song. How I joined the Grey Wardens, doomed myself to have tainted blood in my veins and Darkspawn in my head for the rest of my short life, and somehow caused the Blight, just so that I could control the throne.”

“Yes,” Eamon said. “It is entirely unfair. But that is the nature of politics. Appearances are everything. They spread similar rumors about me.”

“I can’t wait to hear a new theory about who is the puppet master controlling all my actions,” remarked Alistair, slowly and pointedly turning the page of the large, unwieldy looking book laid out on the table before him. “Perhaps it really has been Ser Bumperton all along.”

The mabari hound titled his ears towards Alistair at the mention of his name, but remained wisely silent, instead electing to turn over so that the other side of him could face the fireplace.

Alistair had been trying his best to cram a lifetime’s worth of study on the finer points of governance into a matter of a few months. That meant a lot of reading and meeting with tutors, which surprised many who had expected him to be a King in name only, letting Eamon and Esme run his kingdom for him.

Esme was not surprised… he had grown up considerably during course the Blight, changing from the directionless and shy Chantry-raised boy she had first met at Ostagar into someone who could stand up for himself and what he believed was right. She would not have pushed for him to become King if she had not thought he was coming around to the idea of making some good out of the circumstances of his birth. And she recognized that Alistair excelled at anything he actually set his mind to. The trick was getting to the point where his mind was made up. Sometimes, she thought she was the only one who saw these strengths in him, but perhaps with time and diligence that would change.

There was some truth in the fact that she desired the power that came with being married to the King. But was that such a terrible thing? She was a Cousland, sister to the new Teyrn of Highever. If all her heroic deeds during the Blight meant absolutely nothing to anyone, in fact made them leery of her, then what did they want out of their leaders? What made Anora Mac Tir more fit to be Cailan’s queen than she was fit to be Alistair’s?

That was the crux of it, but she was still loathe to come out and say it. Everyone had couched the final decision at the Landsmeet in terms of Anora versus Alistair… when in Esme’s mind it was Anora versus _her._

“I hardly think that my title will quell rumors from Anora’s loyal supporters,” Esme insisted, turning back to Eamon. “We may have killed an archdemon but those who truly loved Loghain will never forget that he was beheaded at the Landsmeet.”

“Darling wife-to-be, I am _not_ going to execute Anora,” Alistair said with a weary sigh. “I told you, I—”

“I never said that you should,” she protested quickly, feeling her blood rise, ashamed to be so transparent about it.

“You imply it.” Page turn. “Unsubtly.” Page turn. “Every day.”

She walked over to the table and put a hand down on the book. It had something to do with taxation, which Alistair had been making a valiant attempt to learn about, and had lost all interest in, apparently. “Well, she is a great threat, still,” Esme said, knowing that she was rising to the bait, but not caring. “Even if you banish her to the Free Marches. _Especially_ if you banish her to the Free Marches. If you don’t want her blood on your hands then _at least_ keep her in the Tower, where she can be controlled.”

“And one day Zevran will just _happen_ by and oops!”—Alistair waved his hands mockingly—“she just _happens_ to trip and fall onto a dagger, oh how did that get there? Tsk tsk!”

 _I liked it better when you always let me decide what to do,_ she thought, unfairly, and retreated with a shrug. The fact that she had seriously contemplated just such a scenario embarrassed her.

Eamon held up his hands. “Please, please, let us focus on the matter at hand.”

“This is the matter at hand. If you name me the Princess-Consort, then Anora will _always_ be ‘the Queen’, because there will be no other person who bears the title after her. You do see that, don’t you?”

Eamon, apparently, did not see that at all.

“If it were merely a matter of rumor surrounding the Landsmeet, I would agree with you,” he said, with a maddeningly patient tone. “But there is still the matter that you are the de-facto Commander of the Grey Wardens. Such power coupled with your connection to the King does nothing to assuage fears of a monopoly of power.”

“Calling me Princess-Consort instead of Queen won’t make them _forget_ that I am both a Grey Warden and married to the King.”

“No, but it matters. It tells them that you are married to the King, but do not rule the King.”

“Oh but she _does_ rule the King,” Alistair said, completely unhelpfully. “The King would do— _has_ done—pretty much anything for her.”

“Anyway, Alistair is a Grey Warden and he’s the King,” she said, moving past said King’s jokes. “You didn’t think there was a problem with that.”

“I’m not really a Grey Warden,” said Alistair, finally giving up all pretense of reading. He pushed the book away and leaned back in his chair. “Not anymore. I gave up that calling when I agreed to become the King.”

Esme looked at him in surprise. He’d said it the same way he used to dismiss his stint as a Templar-in-training. As if it was just a phase, and one he’d rather forget.

Of course he had resigned from the order...technically... But a Grey Warden was something you became for life. The only way to ever truly leave was to die. “You can give up the calling but you can’t escape The Calling,” she said. “You’ll always be a Grey Warden, above all else. We both will.”

Alistair had no reply to that. He looked sad and serious for a moment, then with visible effort pushed whatever dark thoughts her words had conjured away.

“Well, if it means that much to you, I want you to be the Queen, and that’s what I’ll call you, loudly and often. I’ll wander the halls saying _Esme is the Queen,_ along with, _I can’t believe that this indestructible goddess is my wife,_ and, _someone pinch me because I must be dreaming,_ or, _wait, no, on second thought, if I’m trapped by a Fade demon who has constructed my perfect fantasy, this time I_ **_never_ ** _want to be rescued..._ ” He trailed off with a smile, then got up and walked over to her, placing his hands affectionately on her crossed arms. “I mean, you always wanted to be Queen more than I wanted to be King, and you deserve it. You _know_ that you are my Queen, even if Eamon insists they call you the Silver Tongued Minx Who Somehow Always Gets Her Way Much to the Chancellor’s Chagrin.”

Eamon knew he was being goaded, but gave the young King a sour look. “I do wish you would talk this seriously. I am merely trying to be reasonable and mitigate the damage caused by your imprudent choice of—”

He caught himself, just as Alistair gave him a sharp, silencing look. There were few times Alistair got deadly serious and really showed his displeasure, unadorned with any sarcasm, and it always made people take notice.

“Well, no matter,” Eamon said, backing down. He had started to bring up a private argument in front of Esme that Alistair never wanted her to hear.

Neither of them knew that Esme already had ears and eyes enough in the castle to know that Eamon had been trying to convince the new king that his bride was unfit, not only because the taint in their blood was likely to make their union a barren one, but because she was not actually a Cousland by blood.

Esme had been adopted.

It was hardly a secret.

She had been made a Cousland in name and rank by royal decree, a long time ago when she was only an infant. Teyrn and Teyrna Cousland had petitioned King Maric to ensure that no one could use her adopted status against her in the future to strip her of her inheritance.

She knew absolutely nothing of her birth parents, besides the features she saw in the mirror.

The Couslands had always insisted that she be treated no differently than Fergus. Perhaps that's why they had indulged her tomboyish inclinations. Perhaps they knew she would never be a true noblewoman, as hard as they tried to delude themselves otherwise.

Esme couldn’t remember the first time she really understood that she was different than her brother and her parents. It was obvious to anyone with eyes, for her skin was several shades darker than the pale Couslands. Her eyes and hair and bone structure betrayed no familiarity with any of them.

If Eamon thought that would matter to Alistair, the bastard son of a serving wench, he was vastly mistaken.

Eamon shared gossip dredged up from around Highever, which spoke of an Orlesian chevalier who besmirched the honor of a Cousland vassel’s daughter, and was put to death for his crimes. When the girl gave birth, dying in the process, her family had been about to throw the babe into the Waking Sea, until Eleanor Cousland intervened.

The teyrna had always wanted a daughter, but had been unable to carry a second child to term after a difficult labor with her firstborn, Fergus. So she took the Orlesian chevalier’s bastard in and forbade anyone to speak of her as anything other than a Cousland.

It was a good story, Esme thought. And the first time she had heard of it. It was certainly something she would have told Alistair already if she had, considering they could have bonded over it. Arl Eamon was trying to impress upon his former ward the political danger of marrying someone who could be the child of an Orlesian, of course, rather than appealing to his sentiment as a motherless bastard. It was absurd.

Alistair never told her that Eamon was actively trying to convince him not to marry her, perhaps thinking it would hurt her feelings, or worse, make her hate Eamon. She learned all of this from Leliana and Zevran, who were more than happy to spy for her.

She was not surprised by it. Eamon was courteous and generous to her face, for she had been his greatest ally in his quest to see Alistair seated on the throne. In addition, of course, to being the warrior who slayed an archdemon and ended a blight. The elder Arl was far too canny and wise to boldly antagonize her.

But she did not think he had ever truly forgiven her for Arlessa Isolde’s death. He had seemed to move past it easily, saying that Bann Teagen had explained the whole ordeal to him, and claiming that he understood what a difficult and impossible choice had been before her. And, after all, she had saved his son. He was grateful to her, in fact. Well, Morrigan had saved his son, but everyone know that she had only entered the Fade and battled the demon controlling Connor at Esme’s insistence.

Esme never really took nobles at their word anymore, though. She had learned the hard way that an Arl could be a friend and ally to your face only to stab you in the back one day. Eamon Guerrin was no Rendon Howe, but the idea that he could suppress his true feelings for temporary, pragmatic alliances was not out of the question.

Even if it were not for all that, the fact that Esme was a formidable figure in her own right made her a definite rival for the trust and the affection of the King. Alistair had relied on her all throughout the Blight and not only loved but respected her, even if he enjoyed teasing her and was more than willing these days to put his foot down when he absolutely disagreed with her. It was undoubtedly more advantageous for the Chancellor if the King were married to someone he neither knew nor cared for, as such a wife was unlikely to displace Eamon as the King’s foremost advisor.

No man had ever defeated her in battle, but somehow, Eamon eventually got his way about the title, in the end.

Princess-Consort it was. She hated it. It sounded like a rare, gentle flower that wilts the moment you pick it.

But she realized that to tenaciously continue to argue the point made her look mercenary, as if she didn’t care about Alistair at all and had only wanted him because he was her carpet to walk upon on her way to the throne. And Eamon was canny enough to have figured out that Esme absolutely despised such talk, and that she worried Alistair would one day start to believe it. Eamon knew that he simply had to refuse to let the matter go and she would relent. Or, if she refused to give it up, he could use that to poison the King against her, slowly.

Esme decided that she would be _happy_ , no matter what. No matter that doubt was chipping away at her happily-ever-after before it even began. No matter that Alistair wasn’t taking her advice about Anora and that Eamon was already scoring small victories against her. No matter.

 

* * *

 

Anora had been a beloved and well respected, competent Queen, and plenty of people thought she still should be on the throne. Even among those who loved Alistair for his Theirin blood and charming nature, there were murmurings that he should have married his brother’s widow instead of banishing her.

Even Morrigan had tactlessly said it right after the Landsmeet. Said it to Esme’s face, in fact. Oh, not unkindly, but uttered in that innocently callous way she had—often missing the fact that no one wanted her pragmatism at the moment.

Alistair, not always the most tactful either, had initiated a conversation about the necessity of heirs while almost their entire group of fellow travelers was in the room. Clearly, Arl Eamon had raised concerns about the idea of Esme and Alistair getting married, before he left for Redcliffe, and Alistair wasted no time in finding her to talk about it.

Everyone else pretended to be otherwise occupied while they spoke, but after Alistair had left, Morrigan said,

“Perhaps he ought marry Anora instead. She is not so very old that she cannot still have children, and it would satisfy those who still support her claim. Tis a wonder no one has seriously considered this. I am but an ignorant wood’s witch and I can see the wisdom of it.”

It took a moment for Esme to believe she had heard her right. “Surely not,” she said, confused as to how Morrigan could think that was even an option anymore. “Did you forget? He beheaded her father.”

The blood of Loghain Mac Tir was likely not even cold yet. Anora would sooner impale herself on her father’s pointy armor than agree to a marriage with his killer, even if it was the only way to keep herself on the throne.

Granted, Morrigan had not been present when the beheading happened—as no one thought it prudent to bring an apostate along with them to the Landsmeet, when they were trying to win the noble’s support and approval. Esme had brought Wynne, a respectable Circle mage, and Leliana, dressed in her Chantry robes, along with her and Alistair. Such a respectable bunch.

Perhaps it was passive-aggressive revenge for being left behind that made Morrigan say these things. But Morrigan had shown no prior inclination towards accompanying them. She had outright said that she preferred to stay at Arl Eamon’s estate. She had bid them good day with a sardonic smile and told Alistair not to get himself killed, as if she meant quite the opposite.

“Oh, yes,” Morrigan said, with a shrug, responding to Esme’s reminder of how the Landsmeet had ended just hours before. “That unshakeable filial bond, of course. How could I possibly forget?”

Esme frowned. She recognized Morrigan’s sarcastic allusion to her own broken bond with her mother… if Flemeth had even been a mother to her at all. But it was different with most people, and Anora was no exception. That bond had been unshakeable enough, when Anora had stood by her father and castigated Esme in front of the Landsmeet, accusing her of being a traitor and a power hungry grasper for the throne, just as Loghain had derisively called her a puppet master.

She had hated Anora with a bright burning glow in that moment. She had thought they had an understanding. “Oh, Maric’s boys, they do have their charm,” Anora had said, knowingly, when Esme had not denied that she and Alistair were something more than comrades in arms. It seemed less a condemnation and more a wistful moment, as if Anora were remembering Alistair’s half-brother, her own husband, whose death warrant had been sealed by her own father. But Esme had been mistaken. Anora saw her as a fool, and she felt a fool.

In the end, it hadn’t mattered, for the nobles stood behind the Grey Wardens at the Landsmeet. Anora’s accusations against Esme had fallen on deaf ears.

She had felt triumphant. Relieved.

When Alistair had brought Loghain Mac Tir to his knees in a duel, he had looked to Esme, as he always did, though it was clear what he had already made up his mind to do. Still, she had given him an approving nod. Her blood was up, their victory was complete, and nothing could have made her regret that moment.

...Until Mac Tir’s blood had splattered across his daughter’s body, and she had stood there as regal as ever, but with a stricken expression, as if the sword’s blade had cut out her heart and turned her to stone.

Alistair hdsn’t noticed, or perhaps cared, but Esme had been unable to look away.

In that moment, she _was_ Anora, in a way.

She was in the Highever kitchen larder again, scraped knees on the hard cold ground that was sticky with fast cooling blood. Where did her father’s blood end and hers begin…? She didn’t know. The blood had stayed on her knees and shins for hours, until she and Duncan had chance to camp for the night and he had asked her if she wanted to wash off in the river.

She might have taken pity on Anora after that, but now she was in too deep. There was no going back, no deciding to spare Mac Tir, to offer him some chance to redeem himself or atone for his crimes.

And the strange feeling of kinship she had with Anora meant that she understood exactly what a threat the former queen was to her, and to Alistair.

If Anora was half the woman Esme thought she was, she would never rest until the man who had killed her father was deposed and dead. It didn’t matter that Alistair showed her clemency, didn’t matter that he named her his temporary heir during the Battle of Denerim. If Rendon Howe had done any of those things for Esme she would have spat in his face before dealing the killing blow herself.

It didn’t really matter that Howe and Alistair were different, in Esme’s own estimation. Seen through the lens of a daughter’s love and loyalty, both were no doubt equally monstrous.

That unshakeable filial bond.

 

* * *

_9:42 Dragon_

* * *

 

 

Esme no longer knew what to think about Anora. The deposed queen hadn’t mounted a rebellion in a decade. Not successfully or publicly, anyway. She might be behind some of the foiled assassination attempts over the years, but if so, she hadn’t hired very good assassins. She might be trying to gain support for a coup in the Free Marches, but Esme’s spies hadn’t heard of it.

Esme had many spies once she became Princess-Consort. Leliana had been chief among them for a time, and so had Zevran, until they had drifted away from her, looking for lives of their own. But by then she had built up enough contacts to keep a finger on the pulse of what was brewing in the world around her, from the Royal Palace in Denerim to the far reaches of Tevinter.

She swore she’d never be caught unawares again. No one would destroy her and Alistair’s new life the way that Rendon Howe had destroyed her parents’ lives.

And yet, for all that careful paranoia, it seemed as if the life she had envisioned for them would never be.

They were Grey Wardens.

Grey Wardens didn’t get happily-ever-afters.

She knew this when she was called to visit Amaranthine to meet with the Orlesian Wardens and found herself fighting Darkspawn once more, but this time without Alistair, because he was King and had to go deal with trouble in the Bannoran.

He had laughed and said that Eamon would kill him if he abandoned his duties to tag after her and fight the Grey Wardens’ battles again. As if fighting Darkspawn was some unimportant trifle. She had asked twice if he would consider staying with her until the threat was ended, if he would be a Grey Warden just a little longer, to truly see a finish to the Blight they had both devoted their lives to ending. But she had not asked a third time. He had kissed her goodbye and she had turned her face away, so that his lips landed on her cheek.

After the final remnants of the Blight were dealt with, the Mother dead, the Architect disappeared into the Deep Roads along with the remainder of the horde, Esme renounced her title as Warden-Commander and declared that she would fight the Grey’s battles no longer.

She returned to Denerim, fully intending to throw herself completely into that life, that identity… but things were different.

Alistair waited for her at the gates, with a wide smile and arms outstretched. He was not alone; all of Denerim was there cheering and welcoming their “Queen” home. She fell into her husband’s arms and allowed a showy kiss for the delighted crowds.

But the crisis in Amaranthine had been hard on her, and he had not been there. It stuck in her soul, a cold feeling of aloneness. Everyone was gone, dispersed… the new family she had made to replace the Couslands. Her Blight Family, as she would ever after think of them. She still had Alistair… but now he was the King. Above all else. King first, husband second, a Grey Warden not at all.

Oh, there were good days, good months, even good years. But she was restless. She was rendered barren by the taint in her blood. She thought about the Calling more and more, and not just as some far off event that would happen in thirty years, but a threat. It weighed on her mind and gnawed at her heart.

The first time she had presided over a Joining, she had watched a bright and brave young woman die. Ser Mhairi had served in the King’s army at the Battle of Denerim and was the first to volunteer to help rebuild the Ferelden Grey Wardens’ ranks. It wasn’t right that she died.

Esme had almost forgotten how horrible her Joining had been: watching Daveth die in agony and then watching in horror as Duncan stabbed poor Jory to death rather than allow him to back out of drinking the poisonous blood. She remembered thinking that she would surely die if she drank it but being too afraid of Duncan’s quick blade to refuse.

It had been easy to push that memory aside after his death, to venerate him as Alistair did.

Until she had _become_ Duncan, giving the death drink to others.

She swore that she would not keep the Joining a secret, damn centuries of Grey Warden tradition to hell. She thought that made her better, somehow. That it washed the blood from her hands.

From her knees, her shins, her soul.

She was truly forced to look into the mirror and ask what being Warden-Commander was doing to her after that campaign, and it contributed to her decision to pass the title on to someone else.

She had taken Nathaniel Howe out of the Vigil’s Keep dungeon and conscripted him as punishment for his father’s crimes. Part of her hoped he would die in the Joining and part of her hoped he would come to know the same pain that she had: family dead, only chance at survival joining an order which would doom him to a short and brutal life of nightmares.

Nathaniel had, against all odds, become a trusted friend. Once they got past the fact that his father had killed her family and she had killed his father, they often agreed on what should be done and how to do it. He always had her back. She was glad to have him fighting by her side, but It made her feel a little bad that she had originally conscripted him out of spite.

Was she really the kind of woman who would do that?

When had that happened? When had she become the sort of person who would vindictively continue the cycle of revenge?

 _When you killed Howe and felt like it wasn’t enough. When you nodded in approval as Anora was drenched in her father’s blood,_ a voice whispered in her dreams. _When you tried to convince Alistair to execute Anora, as well._

She never slept well. Not for a long time and perhaps never again.

Alistair had once said, early on, that some Grey Wardens suffered nightmares of Darkspawn all their lives, blight or no blight.

There were far more than archdemons and darkspawn haunting her dreams.


	2. Promises

* * *

_9:42 Dragon_

* * *

 

When did it all start?

She stood overlooking the roiling waters of a distant sea, at the edge of the known world, and asked herself, what had set her on this path?

She stayed at inns far from home where no one spoke her language, bartering for a bed to sleep in by showing coins and pantomiming, and asked herself, how did I get here?

She sought out magisters and apostates and witches, desperate for any forbidden magics that might save her from the very thing which had made her who she was, and asked herself, how _did_ I become the Hero of Ferelden, instead of a person?

When did it begin?

For years she could have easily said it was when Rendon Howe murdered her family.

But the time she had spent alone, searching, had given her time to be more introspective than ever. She was nearly thirty years old, young still by most human standards, but old for a Grey Warden. If things were allowed to remain as they were, she could hope for forty, maybe fifty, but no more. And that was if she stayed in Denerim at Alistair’s side, in the relative safety of the castle, with her sword, shield, and her armor all placidly on display in one of the halls.

Her gear had its own shrine. There was even a plaque. People came to _ohh_ and _ahh._ Here is the sword that killed the archdemon and ended the fifth blight! _I thought it would be shinier?_

She had left it all behind, when she “disappeared.” It was too recognizable, now, to traipse around in. It was a national monument, practically.  A museum piece rather than something she could use. One of Denerim’s most popular tourist attractions.

Instead she wore simple, unremarkable armor with no crest upon it, not Cousland laurels, Theirin hounds, or Grey Warden griffon, though she had the right to any of them.

She thought she would go get her old gear again, if the time came when the Calling drove her mad and she went to the Deep Roads to meet her doom. No need for anonymity, then.

Ten years ago, after the blight, a younger and more naive Esme had talked with Alistair about how they’d go together.

If worse came to worse and they had no children, he’d name an heir, abdicate, and hand in hand they’d go to die, just like old times, but with more certainty that there was no way out. No ritual, no hope, just each other and the Darkspawn. Maybe their tearful subjects would see them off with a parade: a farewell tour around Denerim in a twisted mirror of the coronation tour they had done shortly after they were married. “Come one, come all, say goodbye to your monarchs before they commit ritual suicide!”—which was far more than most Grey Wardens got for their trouble when their time came.

The idea seemed like the end of darkly romantic and tragic ballad, something Leliana would have sung, strumming her lute, as they sat around the campfire eating Alistair's signature overcooked lamb stew and tending to their wounds. Maybe once or twice it had actually been made with lamb.

She smiled a little, remembering the look on Zevran’s face one night, camped in a gully halfway to Orzammar, as he sniffed the grey mash and said, “I could swear I saw you skinning a blighted wolf earlier…”

“Only for your portion,” Alistair had quipped.

“Better that than a bird,” Shale said, with a shudder that sounded like the first rumble of a rock slide. “I didn’t want to tell you, but he puts birds in it sometimes. I’ve seen him. Squat little ones that peck at the ground.”

“Chickens?” Leliana asked, bemused.

Shale just nodded, looking as nauseous as was possible for a golem to look.

Esme sighed, now, that conversation a distant memory. She never would have thought, back then, that she would miss it. But she did. At least back then she had her rag-tag band of misfits to keep her company… and Alistair to share her tent.

Now she stared morosely into her campfire at night, ghosts of the past dancing in the flames. Her faithful mabari hound would try to break her out if it, bringing her sticks to throw, or presenting his belly for scratches, and if that failed, simply pressing himself against her leg and allowing her to absently stroke his head as she brooded.

When she tried to sleep, he would curl up beside her, pressed up against her back, keeping her warm. That was some small comfort. If she didn’t have Ser Bumperton by her side (her nephew, dead these past ten years, had given that whimsical name to the hound) she might have already gone completely mad with loneliness.

There was a joke in there somewhere about Alistair and the hound being interchangeable, and if Morrigan were around she would no doubt provide it.

Morrigan.

There was a reason to brood. A name which always stirred the most complicated of feelings.

 

* * *

  _9:33 Dragon_

* * *

 

After Amaranthine, there was a long time where she honestly and sincerely meant to stay in Denerim and be happy for as long as the poisonous darkspawn taint would let her. She had tackled this happiness with determination, as if emotions could be controlled like magic.

But two years after the end of the Blight, scouts reported sightings of a woman who might be Morrigan in the Korcari Wilds, and Esme couldn’t stop thinking about this. She awoke in the middle of the night and paced the darkened palace halls, trying to convince herself to ignore the reports and leave well enough alone.

She had promised, after all.

But the more she thought about it, the easier it was to come up with reasons and excuses as to _why_ she had to go and investigate. Why _she_ personally had to go, instead of sending spies or scouts.

“What exactly do you expect to happen?” Alistair asked, when she first broached the subject of leaving for a time. He got a sour expression and she knew she was in for an argument. “I thought we all agreed that it was best if she left and we never heard from her again.”

“She said she was going to disappear, but she’s back in Ferelden,” Esme said. “Clearly, something has changed on her end.”

“And…?”

“And I need to find out what’s going on.”

He raised his hands, seeming to search for something to say for a moment, then sighed, “I don’t understand this at all. You hear one rumor about Morrigan and you want to rush off to the blighted wilds to… what? Say hello? Reminisce? Do I have to remind you about—” and here he lowered his voice to a whisper, even though they were alone in their bedchambers “—the demon baby?”

“That’s why I have to go. I need to know if she had the child and what she’s planning on doing with it.”

“No you don’t,” he scoffed, throwing himself dramatically into a chair near the hearth. “You need to pretend that it doesn’t exist. That’s what I do.”

Ser Bumperton was stretched out on the fireplace rug, snoring, oblivious to any troubles, and Alistair stared at him wistfully, as if wishing to switch places.

Esme shook her head, nervously pacing. “I cannot do that. It was my insistence that you do the ritual, so allow me to worry about the outcome.”

“The outcome where we’re alive and happy and don’t have to worry about the archdemon anymore? That outcome? The one Morrigan promised and, it may shock you to hear me say, I am very grateful for? Yes, yes, I’ll admit it, Morrigan saved our lives and it all turned out for the best. So long as we let sleeping maleficarum lie, so to speak….”

“It didn’t come without a price.”

He squinted at her suspiciously. “There is something I am missing here and if I wrack my brain very hard I’m sure it will come to me, but why don’t you tell me what’s really going on? You always trusted Morrigan and you insisted that I do, as well. Oh, don’t deny it. You two were thick as thieves and I recall a time or two when you told me my ‘Templar was showing’ if I said a bad word about her.”

“I just want to talk to her. If she’s still my friend she’ll tell me honestly what she’s planning,” said Esme. “And then neither of us will have to worry about her.”

“I wasn’t worrying,” he said. “See, that’s what has me all confused, my dear wife. I should be the one up all night brooding over my bastard child but I am, shockingly, not worried. I don’t know if I would go so far as to say ‘I trust Morrigan’ but… well, I don’t think she’s coming for the throne with an army and a toddler with horns and bat wings, so whatever she wants to do with the child _doesn’t concern us.”_

“But—”

“Let her _go.”_

She knelt by the edge of his chair and took his hand, giving him wide, pleading eyes. “I can’t,” she said, drawing the words out softly. “I have to do this. I’ll be back before you know it and then we’ll never speak of it again.”

“Well you’re going to do it whether I approve or not,” he muttered, but he tone had softened. “Maker’s breath, woman, I hope you know what you are doing.”

Every time anyone had said that to her, she had never known what she was doing. But it had always worked out, in the end. She was sure that somehow, this would work out too.

She searched all over Ferelden, with Ser Bumperton on her heels, her journey taking her from Flemeth’s abandoned hut to the Circle Tower on Lake Calenhad, to the depths of Cadash Taig and the cursed Brecilian Forest. And then, finally, all the way back up to the Dragonbone wastes, where little more than a year ago she had hunted down the last of the Darkspawn and slain the Mother.

It was a very different sort of mother she was searching for, now, but she found her in the exact same place, standing in the spot where Esme had left the darkspawn abomination for dead. She wondered if Morrigan understood the irony. If she had picked that place on purpose.

She found Morrigan pacing before the eluvian, and approached cautiously. Morrigan hadn’t changed a bit. She wore the same clothes, the same everything, and seeing her was like going back in time two years to the eve of the Battle for Denerim.

Morrigan did not seem surprised to see her. Ser Bumperton rushed up ahead, no caution in his steps, and Morrigan just knelt down to scratch him behind the ears and stroke his painted fur. Then she stood waiting, expectantly, as Esme traversed the broken terrain of the old Tevinter ruins to get to her. Finally, when she was close, Morrigan took a backwards step towards the giant mirror and said, “No further, please. One more step and I leave. For good, this time.”

Esme stopped. “Hello to you too, Morrigan,” she said, her tone bemused, betraying none of her conflicted feelings upon seeing the mage after so long.

“What are you doing here, Esme? Are you not supposed to be living happily-ever-after beside your king?” Morrigan’s tone was arch, her words dismissive, tilting her head the way she did whenever she was casting shade upon Esmeralda’s feelings for Alistair.

“There have been reports,” Esme said, ignoring the implied taunt. “I needed to know if they were true, that you were active in Ferelden again, even though you swore I would not see you again.”

“Of course.” Morrigan turned back to the mirror, inching towards it. Esme stepped closer. “I assume you know what this is. I have gone to great lengths to find and activate this portal.” She fixed Esme with a stare that could freeze a forest fire. “And you would never have seen me, just as I swore, if you had not come searching for me.”

“The eluvians are portals?” Esme asked, remaining still as stone. “To where?”

Morrigan waved her hand. “To another place, beyond this world and beyond the Fade. But this portal can only be used once more. Achieving even this much was... difficult. Give me reason and I use it, and you will not be able to follow.”

“Then why haven’t you left yet, if that’s true?”

Morrigan gave her the hint of a smile. “I remained to see if twas truly you. I had to know.”

Esme held out a hand, cautiously. “I didn’t come here to fight you,” she said, trying to calm Morrigan’s skittish inching toward the portal.

“I did not think you had.” Her eyes turned sad at the suggestion of fighting. “Tell me, truly,” she said, raising her eyebrows, but curiously now, instead of mocking. “Why _did_ you come?”

“We were friends once, Morrigan.”

“So, you chase me all this way to... offer help?” Morrigan sighed, shaking her head. “I will never understand you. And you will never understand me.”

“I won’t understand unless you help me to.”

“I… I… would not even know where to begin explaining.”

“I couldn’t just let you walk away,” Esme said, frustrated by her refusal to speak plainly. “After all we went through, for you to leave the way you did? Like a thief in the night, no goodbyes?” She stepped up closer. “And to forbid me from ever seeking you out? What happened to being like a sister to you? What happened to me being your only friend?”

Morrigan crossed her arms, refusing to be swayed by the same big pleading eyes that always melted Alistair’s defenses. “I told you exactly what would happen after the battle was done. As for letting me walk away? Was that not our deal? A deal you are breaking. What can you hope to gain by coming here now?”

“You owe me the truth.”

“Owe you?” Morrigan took a step towards Esme, now, so close that Esme could see the shining gold of her uncanny eyes. “Twas a fair trade I should think,” she said bitterly. “I got the child I desired; you got the crown you wanted and the man to go with it.”

Esme couldn’t think of anything to say to that. She felt as if she had been slapped. Morrigan sighed, relenting. ”But we were once close, that should be worth something, perhaps. Ask your questions then, since you have traveled so far.”

Esme swallowed, her mouth dry as a bone, anything she might have wanted to say fleeing her mind for a long excruciating moment. All she could think to ask was, “Where is the child?”

Morrigan’s eyes narrowed. Clearly, it was the wrong question. “He is safe, and beyond your reach,” she snapped. “All you need know is that the child is an innocent. He knows nothing of the destiny that lies before him.”

“And what destiny is that?”

“What is your concern? That the child will claim Ferelden's throne? I will not share my plan with you. I dare not. If your trust is insufficient, then your anger will have to do.”

“I’m not angry,” Esme insisted, trying to unclench her jaw. “I just want honesty, for once. What is your plan? I want to know.”

“My plan is to leave, and prepare the child for what is to come. Such preparation requires time. And power. I must have both if I am to be successful. More than this, I dare not say. Even to you.”

That sounded incredibly ominous. Esme blanched at the thought of the child being groomed for some purpose Morrigan unequivocally refused to divulge. “Why did you betray me?” she asked, wearily.

Morrigan recoiled with an incredulous look, her composure slipping. “I did not betray you. I left, just as I said I would.”

“You used me to get what you wanted,” Esme disagreed. “You pretended to be a friend, but you never were. The whole time, all you wanted was a Grey Warden for your ritual. You didn’t even need me at all, really, except to convince Alistair, because you knew you could never get him to do it otherwise. That’s all I was from the very first. A mediator between the two of you. I guess I should be thankful Flemeth even bothered to save me, as I’m not a man and am therefore not necessary.”

“That is unfair,” Morrigan said. A hint of angry tears welled in her eyes. “I fought with you! I put my life on the line to aid your quest! And then the battle came too soon. I had no choice but to go to you, and I did not want to see you die. And here you stand, alive. So do not speak to me of betrayal.”

“I… I just—”

Morrigan held up a silencing hand. “And do not even begin to think you may accuse me of favoring Alistair.” She uttered his name with a hiss. “I spared him for _you,_ because you wanted him. Twas all for you, and now you refuse to leave me be and let me have the one thing I asked for in return.”

Esme was well and truly stricken. She lowered her head silently, unable to think of anything more she could say. She regretted her accusations, and did not know why she had pushed the matter.

“If you are quite finished, allow me to provide you a warning,” Morrigan said icly. “‘Tis Flemeth you should beware of, not me. Hunt her, if you hunt anyone.”

“Flemeth is dead.”

“My mother has tricked her way past death and more. She is no more finished than I am,” Morrigan insisted.

She began to pace again, her brow furrowed. “I thought I knew what Flemeth planned. I thought what she craved was immortality. And yet I was wrong. So very wrong. She is no blood mage, no abomination... She is not even truly human. The ritual was but a means to an end, a herald for what is to come.”

Esme frowned. “Why? What is going to happen?”

“Change is coming to the world. Many fear change and will fight it with every fiber of their being. But sometimes change is what they need most. Sometimes change is what sets them free.”

“And is that what you want? To be free?”

A look of deep sadness clouded Morrigan’s face. “What I want... is unimportant now.” The ice had thawed from her voice, but she caught herself and said brusquely, “I cannot tarry longer. The time has come for me to go.”

“Wait. Let me come with you. I could… help…”

“No. I wish that were possible, I do. But you do not know what you ask. I cannot allow you to make that sacrifice.” Morrigan smiled, though it did not reach her eyes. “Go home to your husband. Enjoy your victory. Live your life.”

“You don't have to do this alone, Morrigan.”

“I wish it were not so, but I do.”

Esme sighed, resignation creeping into her heart. “Will I see you again?”

“Not if you are fortunate. There is one last thing I must tell you—if you will allow me.”

“Yes?”

“I left you a gift. The Dalish book is there... and something you will find of great interest.”

Morrigan motioned a little ways off. Esme turned to look where she pointed and saw where a small camp had been made in the ruins; the remnants of a fire smouldering, a wrinkled bedroll, and a backpack next to it.

“Goodbye, my friend,” she heard Morrigan say, softly, but when she turned back, the space was already empty and the portal was still.

 

* * *

 

When she returned to Denerim, Alistair asked her, “Well? Did you find the answers you were looking for?”

“No,” she said, simply.

He raised an eyebrow. “Should I be… worried?”

“No.” She turned away from him, placing her sword in its venerated spot on a pedestal next to the dragonbone armor she had worn at the battle of Denerim, and contemplated the tableaux in silence.

“Are you alright, my love? What did you find?”

“Nothing,” she said. He put his arms around her from behind, enveloping her in a comforting hug. The fur on his cloak tickled her neck

“So... no Morrigan, then?”

She was silent for a moment, then, “No,” she lied. She wasn’t even sure why. Perhaps she was worried that he would disapprove of her letting Morrigan disappear with only unsettling vagaries and warnings about the mother Esme thought had been killed in the wilds, or perhaps she just didn’t want to talk about it with him at all. It seemed unfair to Morrigan, somehow, to talk about her to Alistair. She was too tired after her long journey home to let herself parse it.

“That’s good. Isn’t it?” Alistair said tentatively, “The rumors were false. She kept her word.”

“Yes,” Esme nodded. “She kept her word.”

“Well, I’m very glad you’re back. I was worried. I know you are invincible, and all, but… well, you know…” he trailed off with a laugh, but it was a weak one, as if the attempt at humor could not fool even himself.

She reached up and absently traced a puckered scab healing on the underside of her jaw, a fresh wound from a dragon cultist’s blade, and nodded. Had the cultist been slightly luckier they could have slit her throat wide open. As it was, it was just a little nick, nothing really compared to blows she had endured when fighting the Blight. Still, how stupid it would have been for her to get herself killed… and for what? An unsatisfying conversation that changed nothing?

She turned around and gave Alistair a kiss. “I missed you, too. And I’m sure the palace was incredibly boring without me, so I’m going to make it up to you.”

“Oh, I like the sound of that,” he said with a wide grin, and for a time all troubles were forgotten.

Later, she was lying in bed staring up at the underside of the bed canopy, unable to sleep. It was the way she spent the majority of most nights, it seemed. She thought Alistair was sleeping, until she heard him ask, “Are you happy?”

She was startled, and turned her head to see the indistinct shape of him facing her in the dark.

“Yes,” she said, automatically.

“You seem troubled.”

“You know I don’t sleep well. Nightmares. Even without the Blight.”

“I meant… in general.”

She turned over onto her side and sighed, reaching out one finger to touch his face, to make him seem more real and solid, a habit she had to make sure wasn’t dreaming, that this wasn’t the Fade. It was a fear of hers that never quite went away, after the Circle—that she could be thinking she had awoken from a dream but was really stuck in the Fade, talking to a spirit.

He felt real enough. Finally, she said, “I love you. You know that, right?”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I don’t know how to answer your question,” she admitted, too tired to keep up her guard. “I don’t know if I should be happy. I don’t think I deserve to be happy.”

“What? No one deserves to be happy more than you.”

“Why? Because I hacked a dragon to pieces? Because I’m the _Hero of Ferelden?”_ she said the title with disdain.

“Um, yes? And you did so much more than that. Don’t even bother being humble, my love. I was there, I saw at all.”

“Never mind. I can’t explain it.”

“What makes you think you _don’t_ deserve it?” he pressed. The bed shifted as he propped himself up on his elbow, fully awake and intending not to let this go.

“I don’t know. Maybe because… because Grey Wardens aren’t supposed to retire and become complacent. I feel like I’m cheating. Don’t you ever feel that way?”

He laughed, softly, bemused. “No, actually. I agreed to be the King and I can’t really afford to look back now, can I? Besides, I fought against the idea until _you_ convinced me to want it. Remember?”

She did remember. Of course she did. She had constantly told him how she believed in him and knew that he could be a good king, until he had learned to believe it too, and was willing to make a stand for himself at the Landsmeet.

Neither had she forgotten how she promised him that she would always be by his side, to be his Queen, to help him so he didn’t ever feel trapped and alone. She had promised that as long as she could prevent it, the crown on his head would not feel like a bolted collar around his neck.

“Anyway,” he went on, “it’s not like we’re sitting about on our hands do nothing all day. We rule Ferelden. You talk as if this is an easy life, as if we were picnicking by the side of the road. I do love a roadside picnic, don’t get me wrong, and there are worse places to live than the royal palace. But I hardly feel complacent. Do you? Is this your way of saying you want more responsibility? Because I can make that happen, but it _would_ help if you didn’t run off to the wilds every time you hear a rumor of Morrigan.”

She smiled wanly, though he couldn’t see it in the dark. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Mm-hm.” He lay back down, and was silent for a few moments, and she thought the conversation might be over, until he ventured, “At the risk of sounding pathetic and insecure… I suppose what I meant, was, are you happy with me?”

Her pulse quickened. “What do you mean?”

“I think you know what I mean. Are you happy? Content? Do you want to be here? With me? I don’t know how many other ways to ask it, really…. Oh! I know; would you rather be somewhere else? With someone else? Morrigan, perhaps?”

He went from babbling to silent abruptly, and the questions hung breathlessly between them.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Alistair.”

“I’m not.”

“Morrigan doesn’t think of me in that way.”

“But you think of her in that way,” he said, with an unhappy sort of triumph.

“I don’t.”

“But you do. I haven’t forgotten… well, you know… I try not to think about the night of the ritual, but I can’t help it.”

She flipped over, turning her back to him. “Maker, this is stupid. I can’t believe we’re having this conversation. It’s been two years.”

“It isn’t stupid. I always thought there was something between you two. I mean, before there was us. But I figured that you chose me, for whatever reason, and I didn’t think it was fair to bring it up. I didn’t want to seem jealous.”

“And now you think that being jealous is just the world’s greatest idea?”

“No. But you left me alone for weeks at the first whisper that Morrigan was back. I had time to stew. I thought you might not even come back.”

Esme sat up and reached out towards the bedside table, fumbling for the candle. She slowly, deliberately lit it, taking that time to compose her thoughts and quiet the pounding of her heart. She should not have lied about finding Morrigan; she knew that now. But if she admitted to the lie now it would be ten times worse.

The flame guttered to life and in the faint, flickering yellow light she looked into his apprehensive face.

“I don’t want to be with anyone else. I’m right where I want to be,” she said, thinking, _I’m right where I worked so hard to get._

“Why don’t I believe you?”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Alistair. What magic words would convince you?”

“I just want to you to be happy. Truly happy.”

She cocked her head to the side, contemplating that for a moment. “And what if I told you that that’s not possible?”

“I’d ask why.”

“Because it’s tainted. My whole life is tainted. Literally and figuratively. It’s going to be short and end in madness, and I used to think that being Queen would make it all better, but I realize I’ve been selfish.”

He turned away, face half lit and half in shadow. “I figured that if I became King I’d probably be assassinated before I even had to worry about the Calling,” he said. “We have about thirty years. That’s a long time.”

“No, it isn’t. And it’s not just that. Eamon was right… you should never have married a fellow Grey Warden. We can’t have children, I think that’s clear now.”

It had been two years, and she knew that the taint only got worse with time… that was why Morrigan had insisted that she needed a relatively new Grey Warden with which to perform the ritual. Alistair had only been a Grey Warden for a few months at the time, and it had taken magic to even make that conception come about.

“I don’t care about that,” he said. “I never wanted anyone else, even if it meant having ten children.”

“You should care. It’s part of being King.”

“Is this really what troubles you?” he asked. “Preserving the Theirin bloodline?”

“Failure,” she said. “Not being able to do my duty.”

He sighed heavily and flopped down on his back, hitting the pillows with an audible thud. “We’ve already talked about this,” he said. “It’s not the end of the world if I have to name an heir who isn’t my blood. We married knowing this was a very real possibility.”

“We married saying that this would be a problem for future us,” she corrected, remembering the conversation far better than he did. “And when we joked about abdicating to go die on the deep roads it was… it wasn’t something I truly wanted.”

“No one _wants_ to die,” he said. “But we’ve got the taint and there’s nothing we can do about it. End of story. But you’re changing the subject. This isn’t about the Calling or not being able to have children. It’s about _us.”_

“I can’t separate all that from _us.”_ she insisted.

“And so,” he said, “you’ll never be happy with me.”

She was silent, exhausted by this argument. “Just let me be unhappy,” she said. What was happiness, anyway? A fleeting feeling that was never meant to last, like cooling porridge? Had it always been inevitable that they would end up this way, or had she made the wrong choices, said the wrong things?

“You must understand what an absurd request that is,” said Alistair.

“Must I?”

“Yes. if I can’t make you happy, then I’m a complete failure as a husband, aren’t I? I _adore_ you, Esme. I would do anything to make you happy, but I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how. If there’s anything I can do, you have to tell me.”

She turned away from him and blew out the candle, drenching the room in full darkness again. She pulled the blankets high up around her and reached out under the sheet till her hand found Alistair’s. “I’m sorry. Please don’t be upset,” she said, squeezing his cold fingers. “I can’t bear it.”

He was silent and still for a moment, then relented and rolled over, pulling her close. “I’m afraid,” he said, breath warm on her hair, “of losing you. Not ten or twenty years from now, but today. Tonight. Tomorrow. And that would kill me, I swear it. I’ll never love anyone else.”

“I never want to hurt you,” she said. It was not the first time she had said it.

“Just promise me that you’ll stay.”

“I promise,” she whispered, the words muffled into his neck. “I promise.”

 

* * *

  _9:37-42 Dragon_

* * *

 

She stayed in Denerim for many years after her search for Morrigan. Five, to be exact.

She had promised, after all. And she did try to be utterly content. Sometimes she even thought she was succeeding.

When she heard the rumors that Morrigan had resurfaced in Orlais, insinuating herself into the court of Empress Celene, she had wondered what her old friend was playing at. There were even rumors of the young boy who was sometimes seen at Morrigan’s side.

If Alistair was concerned about his bastard son being raised in the Orlesian court, he did a very good job of not showing it. He was the one who told her about the reports coming in from their spy network in Orlais, in fact, and had said it so matter-of-factly, the same way he might have said that there was news of Zevran or any of their other old comrades.

“Oh,” she had heard herself say, for the benefit of others who may be listening. “How nice for Morrigan, to have a son.”

The words hung like leaden weights in the room. She hadn’t meant to sound so bitter. She regretted it, knowing that gossip would circulate once more about the barren consort who had failed to give Ferelden a much desired Theirin heir after seven years of marriage.

How ironic that she could go so quickly from “Hero of Ferelden” to “barren woman” in the minds of the people. But they did adore the Theirin bloodline, in Ferelden. It had helped at the Landsmeet, she couldn’t deny that, so she knew she should not be surprised that the nobles and the common folk alike had been expecting little baby Theirins to be forthcoming.

She knew she had no one to blame but herself. She had not wanted to give up Alistair, to give up being Queen, because of the taint.

She did not go to the Orlesian court and Halamshiral when she let Ferelden, a year later, despite what Alistair may have assumed. Morrigan’s life and child were her own affair; Esme had made her peace with that after her fruitless journey to find Morrigan the first time.

But she still could not bring herself to complacently await the Calling, to be happy living with the constant reminder that even though the Blight was ended, she was tainted. She was sure that this was the root of all her problems, and so after a time she made up her mind to do something about it. To find a cure.

It was something she must do on her own, because asking Alistair to come with her was tantamount to asking him to abdicate. And so she had to leave him, despite her promise.

Alistair took it as an abandonment, she knew.  A final confirmation that she did not love him, after all. He gave his blessing for her to leave and do what she must, because she had pressed him for it, unable to leave without trying to convince him that she was not running away. But she could tell he doubted that she ever truly meant to come back.

She told herself that once she succeeded he would see that she did. It would be her last heroically improbable achievement. She had done so many things no one thought she could, so why not this?

If she could only cure herself of the taint, all would be different. All would be well. Alistair would see that he had been wrong and would apologize and swear to never doubt her again. Once she had done this thing, she would have time enough to soothe things over with him. She was still young enough to have children, to fully invest herself in being the Queen, even if she didn’t get the damned title. Most importantly, she felt she could finally make a new life as something other than a Grey Warden desperately pretending to be someone she was not.

Her travels took her all around Ferelden, Orlais, the Free Marches, up to Par Vollen and Tevinter, ever father north and west, till she realized that years were passing. Not months. Years.

Nearly four full years had gone when the messenger from the Inquisition tracked her down and gave her Leliana’s letter. Four years of false leads, and disappointment.

She didn’t know what people were saying about her back home, she had left that for Alistair to deal with. She had left him to deal with a lot. It did not surprise her that Leliana had spoken of him being unhelpful when asked about her whereabouts.

The Inquisition was located in the no-man’s land that was the inhospitable Frostback Mountains, along the border of Orlais and Ferelden. Conveniently, they swore no allegiance to any kingdom, declaring themselves neutral. But they were hardly so, she thought. Their leaders all had highly political backgrounds.

A younger Esme would have dropped everything she was doing to go find out what this Inquisition was all about. On the surface they seemed like just another militant branch of the Chantry, with some Orlesian ties, and they had taken up residence in an old fortress north of Haven and the ruins of the Temple of Sacred Ashes. The Inquisition was building an army, claiming that something uncannily like a new Blight was upon them.

But she wasn’t trying to save the world.

She wasn’t trying to save Ferelden.

She was trying to save herself, her husband, and her fellow Grey Wardens.

She owed it to all the Wardens who had joined or been conscripted since the end of the Blight. Especially the ones she had recruited, herself. She had doomed them to a hard life and a ghoulish fate because the world needed Grey Wardens… didn’t it?

 _You cannot save everyone._ The voice in her head was Morrigan’s.

Morrigan has always hated it when she got sidetracked by some random passerby’s plight. Trying to save every hapless soul with a problem and defeat the Darkspawn had been the height of idiocy in Morrigan’s estimation, and she hadn’t been shy about sharing her opinion.

Probably she had been right, but Esme had never listened. She was too headstrong, and she had been raised by her parents to feel a sense of duty. It was a Teyrna’s duty to serve their subjects; for any society to function and thrive people must take care of each other. Those in power were obliged to help, or they did not deserve their power.

That was then, of course.

If she was still that idealistic, she would have dropped her search and run back home the first time she got whiff of bad news from Ferelden.

A goodly part of her still wanted to give up and go home. Wanted that very much.

Four years ago she had felt restless, trapped in the palace at Denerim, failing at life, ruining her marriage.

Now she was alone. All alone. The sound of a Ferelden song sung by a Ferelden bard had made her want to weep.

What was she accomplishing, really? There was no cure for the taint. There was no cure for her soul.

She thought of swinging by the Frostback Mountains to see old friends, meet this child whose existence she had helped bring about, ask Morrigan if Auntie Esme would be too forward a title to claim? And she did want to meet this remarkable Qunari woman with the magical hand—this modern day, inhuman Andraste.

Then home to Alistair, like a dog with her tail between her legs, because she had insisted that she would not return unless she could do so with a new lease on life. She wasn’t even sure what she would say… _So sorry, love…  What would you say to a parade? Oh, no, no, not a victory parade… a defeat parade! I am so sorry that I squandered all this time chasing after the promise of a few extra years when I should have been here, using my time wisely. Can you forgive me? And what do you think, should we bring Morrigan to court? And her son? No, it’s not what you think. Yes, I am serious. I know, I never learned how to breach a sensitive topic with tact. Anyway, I was giving it some thought… he’s the only son you’ll ever have! You could acknowledge him publicly! That would probably even make Morrigan angry, since she made you promise never to claim the child. And after all, you do love to make her angry, right? And make me happy? This would accomplish both of those things at the same time!_

Ser Bumperton interrupted her downward thought spiral, and the imaginary conversation she was having with her husband, by nudging her hand with his cold, wet nose. She shuddered a little, coming back to the moment.

“You’re right,” she said to Ser Bumperton. “Morrigan and Alistair would both hate me forever if I did anything like that.”

He whined a little in response.

“Sometimes,” she confided, “I think terrible, evil thoughts. I consider things I know are wrong. But you know, I never act on it. I always do the right thing. I do.”

She reached down and patted his lumpy head.

That was the reason for his name… Oren had called him that when he was still but a puppy, and Esme had chosen the dog from a new litter. She had brought Oren, who was five years old at the time, along with her to the kennels to pet the squirming, yipping, velvety soft little dogs. He squealed in delight as the puppies covered him in slobbering kisses.

“His head is all bumpy!” he had said, holding onto one of the houndlings, his spindley little arms wrapped around the fat puppy torso.

“Don’t say that; you’ll hurt his feelings,” Esme had chided playfully. “He looks quite regal to me, for a dog anyway. A handsome knight of a fellow.”

“A knight!” Oren laughed, while the energetic dog slipped from his childish grasp. “Ser Bumpy!”

“Ser Bumperton,” Esme said, very seriously, but with a twinkle in her eye as she watched her nephew chase after the hound.

They had departed the kennel laughing together. Esme held Ser Bumperton under one arm and clutched Oren’s small, sweaty hand with her free hand.

It had been late summer. The sun was shining low in the sky, dipping toward the horizon. They rushed back to the keep, late for dinner, but still found time to sneak into the kitchen and raid the larder, giggling at the thought of Nan’s outrage when she noticed a ham bone was missing. Esme had been 18 years old but still such a child, in so many ways.

She remembered it so clearly. Falling into her chair, still breathless with laughter, as Oren slid into his own seat. Fergus and Oriana exchanged bemused glances while Mother and Father asked what had kept them so long.

Such thoughts inevitably reminded her of Oren’s dead, mangled body lying beside Oriana’s on their bedroom floor.

Father, bleeding out in a pool of his own blood. He died in the larder. Mother died with him, though Esme had not been there to see it. Her last memory of them both was Mother kneeling over Father, a sword clutched in her hands, determined to kill as many Howe soldiers as she could when they came to desecrate Father’s body.

She wondered how long it would take to stop dreaming about it.

It had been the first atrocity she had seen. It would not be the last, but even now, it managed to haunt her like few others.

Oren would be eighteen now, had he lived. Maker, it had been so long. He’d been dead now longer than he’d been alive.

Both of their privileged childhoods had ended that night, but she had been luckier than her nephew.

She had escaped with her life.

More than ten years later, and she was still running.


	3. Families

* * *

_9:30-31 Dragon_

* * *

 

When she was a small child, no older than Oren had been when he died, she had often escaped her lessons with Aldous to follow her brother around like a shadow.

Fergus was ten years her senior and for as far as her memory went back, she had worshipped him. She had wanted to be just like him.

A warrior! Tall, strong, and noble. That was what she saw when she gazed up at him, separated by so many inches and years. Fergus had always indulged his little sister, being of an age difference to treat her more like a pet than a nuisance. He put a sword and a shield in her hand when she was five. A wooden sword and shield, of course, but a sword and shield nonetheless.

From that day on all she had ever wanted to do was play at Being Fergus in the yard. No boring, stodgy lessons on lore, or courtesy, or politics. Certainly not lessons on how to be a Teyrna, like her mother. Who wanted to stay at home and run the household when there was glory to be had marching out to do battle?

She had had a child’s eager understanding of war.

She had had an adoring little sister’s view of the warrior.

But she was indulged. Indulged enough that by the time she was 19 she was knocking her father’s men-at-arms in the mud and tramping around Highever Keep in boy’s clothes, playing in the kennels with Oren, because she had no interest in gowns or decorum.

She had no plans to ever marry and become a lady. No man could ever live up to the standard Fergus had set in her imagination.

She had no plans to have children of her own. She had Oren.

Her mother had once longed for a daughter, but many said she had ended up with a second son instead.

When Ser Duncan of the Grey Wardens came to Highever, looking for conscripts or volunteers, he found a fierce and proud girl left in charge of the castle while her brother rode out for glory.

He’d found a Grey Warden.

If she had been more the daughter her mother had expected, surely Duncan would never have taken her away. Probably she’d be dead by now. Just like Oriana. Poor, beautiful, Oriana.

Esmeralda had been half in love with her sister-in-law from the moment they had met. Esme had been 13, an awkward age for any girl but especially one who preferred swords and dogs to dancing and suitors.

The marriage was an arranged one; the first time Fergus even met his wife-to-be was when she came riding sidesaddle through the Keep’s gates. So it was that both brother and sister stood gawping as she galloped into their lives.

Oriana was beautiful, refined, and Antivan—but more importantly she proved to be kind and deferential to the awkward child sister of her intended. She had brought Esme a gift from her homeland, a necklace.

Esme didn’t have that necklace anymore. It had been lost, along with so many other things, the night Highever was sacked.

The night Oriana was murdered alongside her six-year-old son.

The night Esme was conscripted into the Grey Wardens.

“The night it all began,” she had been saying, for years, whenever she told anyone the story of her life.

It was a middle, though, not a beginning.

The true beginning, perhaps, was all the way back to a dastardly Orlesian chevalier and an ill-fated peasant girl who had died to give her unwanted child life.

Maybe it was this Orlesian father’s blood that made her the way she was; a misfit. A gangly, graceless tomboy who excelled at killing. Or maybe it was the commoner blood from her peasant mother. Maybe it was her mother’s spirit, reaching out from the depths of the Fade to make sure that her daughter grew up strong and able to defend herself. To see to it that she was someone who feared no man. An indestructible goddess.

She did not really believe that story, though. Soon after learning of the rumors, she had sent her own discreet spies to Highever, where Fergus was restoring their family home, to see if they could ask around and find out where this rumor of Eamon’s came from.

The search was not altogether fruitless. Some people spoke of an Orlesian man who had still lived in the area after the Orlesians had been driven from Ferelden. He had been well enough liked by the community, so allowed to lived there unmolested for many years after the war. He was unlikely to be her father though, as no hint that he had been murdered for impregnating a local girl could be found. They said that he died choking on a fishbone, and if he’d left behind a heartbroken lover, no one spoke of it now.

It really was all nothing but a ridiculous fantasy planted in her mind by Eamon’s meddling.

She was the way she was because she had wanted to be like Fergus, and one thing had led to another.

In the ballads of heros of old, people were chosen for some purpose. Esme didn’t feel as if she had ever been chosen.

She was in the right place at the right time, or the wrong place, depending on how you looked at it. The only reason she had risen to the challenge and become the Hero of Ferelden was because Alistair had let her take the lead. No, he had insisted she take the lead. He had lost Duncan and she had lost her family, and for a short time after Ostagar they had floundered haplessly along, trying to get the other to make a decision. Morrigan was thrust upon them by Flemeth and Esme had welcomed her though Alistair had disliked and distrusted her from the start. But he had gone along with her decision, seemingly relieved that she had made it. That was the first moment that their early dynamic really started to congeal, as it were. Alistair would offer an opinion but he really, really didn’t want to be the one who had to make the final call.

It all just fell into place after that. People saw that Alistair was following her, and then Morrigan, and on and on until she was recognized as some sort of leader. The leader of the Grey Wardens! All two of them, and their friends.

Her Blight Family.

 

* * *

 

Things had not been all hearts and teasing declarations of love between her and Alistair from the start.

At Ostagar, perhaps, yes. That was an innocent day when older, more seasoned people were clearly in charge and everything seemed under control. Duncan, Cailan, Loghain… they were the men making the calls. All Esme had to do was what she was told. Still reeling from the loss of her family, she had been comforted by Alistair’s cheerful, chatty demeanor. To take her mind off the fall of Highever, she had lingered with him in the camp, peppering him with all sorts of questions about his life, and he seemed flattered that she cared to get to know him.

At first he only saw her as a pretty, curious noble girl who was polite and deferentional, laughing at his jokes rather than at him, amazingly enough. He thought she was showing a definite interest. That was more than enough to develop the beginnings of a crush, on his end.

They may have been soldiers in a war against the army of the damned, but they were also sheltered youths, only 19 and 20, who were let loose upon the wider world for the first time. She had been happy to learn that he was accompanying her and the other conscripts on their first mission.

Esme had never flirted with anyone before. Not intentionally, anyway. It went hand in hand with the whole tomboy aspect of her entire life up to that point. She wasn’t coquettish or charming, and if Alistair had been any more worldly he probably wouldn’t have been interested in her at all. She was sure of it.

Morrigan would later tell her that all men believed two things about woman, that they were both weak and attracted to them, so if you wanted something, you just had to play along. Esme had not thought of herself as that cunning, but she had given him no reason _not_ to think that she was attracted to him. She had most certainly not tried to seem weak, though. If anything, she had done her best to show off her fighting skills when it came to it.

Killing Darkspawn that first time out had been exhilarating. And for every brutal, demonic face she saw, she imagined Rendon Howe. Everyone was impressed by how well she fought. Perhaps the the sight of her muscled arms being splattered with Darkspawn blood as she screamed in rage had turned Alistair on.

And then she had met Morrigan.

She’d never forget that moment. Morrigan certainly had a flare for dramatic entrances, sauntering down the ruined steps and crooning, “Well, well, well, what do we have here?”

She was unlike any person Esme had ever encountered.

For one, she was an apostate.

For two, she dressed like something out of a fairy tale, a wicked and beautiful witch who seduced men and stole children. That was definitely not the sort of person who had ever visited Highever.

The three men had been too terrified of her to function, so Esme had stepped out in front. Morrigan had been impressed by how unperturbed Esme was in comparison.

“I like you,” she had said, appreciatively, and Alistair’s chiding warning blurred in her ears as she felt heat rise to her cheeks. This strange and dangerously beautiful creature like _her?_ Clearly, she was being mocked.

After they had returned to camp, Esme had thought that their encounter with Morrigan and Flemeth would stick in her mind like a fanciful dream, and remain a colorful memory, a story to share about “that time we met the witch of the wilds.” She never expected to see Morrigan again, much less spend months traveling and fighting alongside her. But there were many things she never expected to happen, and they all had, and then some.

She did forget about Morrigan for a short while, because there was the Joining to endure, and a battle to lose.

But then she woke up in the cabin after the battle, unable to remember how she got there, and Morrigan had been surprisingly patient with her as she struggled to regain her faculties. And then, there was the long walk out of the Korcari Wilds to Lothering, with only Alistair, Morrigan, and Ser Bumperton by her side.

Alistair and Morrigan spent the whole time sniping at each other like a stray cat and a belligerent dog. It became a light background buzz after a while, Alistair needling her and Morrigan insulting him. Sometimes Esme felt as if they had forgotten she was even there.

 _Are they… flirting?_ she had wondered on more than one occasion. It was certainly a vicious sort of flirting, but it reminded her of novels she had surreptitiously read when she noticed them being passed around by her mother’s ladies-in-waiting. In those turgid stories of love and lust, the protagonists were always at each other’s throats before they were at each other’s… other things. The thought gave her a prickle of jealousy, but she couldn’t tell who she was jealous of… did she resent Morrigan for stealing Alistair’s attention, or what is the other way around?

Perhaps it was just a general sort of discontented inkling that because they looked to her as a leader, she was on the outside of something she would rather be in on.

Things would be vastly different if Fergus had been there. She had wanted to go looking for him in the Wilds, but had been talked out of it. Morrigan had used the pragmatic tone Esme would come to know so well as she explained how stupid and terrible that idea was. Esme’s brother was either dead, and there was no point in searching the wilds for him, or he had escaped, in which case there was also no point in searching for him.

Alistair had actually _agreed_ with her.

It pained Esme, but she had to admit that they were probably right, and so she had turned her back on the wilds and headed for the nearest outpost of civilization.

But if Fergus had been with them, well, things would have turned out very differently, she thought. Fergus was a born leader, and she had been following in his footsteps her whole life. She would have gladly and gratefully ceded all the decision making to Fergus, if only she could.

But like everything else from her old life, which had been brutally taken away, such a comfortable and familiar routine was not to be.

Perhaps that was the true story behind all Heroes with a capital H. Generations later people said they had been chosen by the Maker and given a great destiny, but in fact they had just been unlucky enough to be stripped of everything that made them comfortable and happy and safe, and without anyone else to turn to they became Leaders.

Esme’s first prerogative as Leader and future Hero had been to collect as many misfits and ne’er-do-wells to her well armored bosom as she possibly could.

It was shortly before reaching Lothering that they stopped for a brief rest, and Esme, rubbing Ser Bumperton’s belly, looked back and forth between her tired, grumpy companions and realized that she was terrified of losing them.

She had known them for a day or two, they were strangers by any normal estimation, but they were all she had. In her heart she had begun to believe that Fergus was dead, so she was all alone in the world, except for an apostate mage who seemed to be likely to disappear at the drop of a hat, and and a pseudo-Templar who claimed not to want to be anyone’s leader but was dead set on fighting the Blight with or without her. She began to really worry that if she failed to live up to their expectations they would just ditch her and go off to rally the factions without her.

Maybe she’d go to sleep and wake up all alone save for Ser Bumperton and then she didn’t know what she would do. Die, probably, unless she made a run for the north and escaped the Blight. But she didn’t want to have to abandon her homeland, and besides, she needed friends and allies if she was ever going to get justice for her family.

She _needed_ them. She needed them to think she was stronger and smarter and more capable than she really was, because clearly that’s what they had decided when they agreed to follow her lead.

It wasn’t very heroic, after all. Many times when people were asking her to relate the story of how she united Ferelden against the horde and defeated the archdemon, she would wonder if she should just say, “I only did it because I was afraid of being left alone.”

She did not, of course, ever say that. Most of the time she just cited her duty as a Grey Warden and left it at that. “I did everything I did because I’m a Grey Warden and that’s what we do.”

After a brief stay in Lothering, resupplied and as rested as was possible in a town panicked by the approach of Darkspawn, they departed for Redcliffe, along with an eccentric Chantry sister and a stoic Qunari. More misfits would join them later, but even as their numbers increased, Esme still felt what she could only think of as a fixation on Alistair and Morrigan. She really truly cared what they thought of her, even though in Morrigan’s case it was almost impossible to actually discern what she thought of her.

Morrigan allowed Esme’s impertinent questions with a bemused air of indifference, as if she couldn’t imagine why anyone really wanted to know all about life growing up with Flemeth. She was less easily flattered than Alistair, but Esme wanted to get to know her all the same, and felt that not judging Morrigan’s unorthodox lifestyle and upbringing was starting to make the mage like her a little. This was good, because so many people had hated how curious she was, as a girl. She would ask visitors endless questions, until the teyrn or teyrna would take pity on the squirming guest and shush her.

No, she elected to go to Redcliffe from Lothering, because Alistair said that Arl Eamon Guerin was a good, honorable man who was like family to him and was quite literally family to King Cailan (the late king’s uncle). The idea of going there was appealing because it meant asking for help and advice from someone who wasn’t inexperienced and lost and trying to save face.

As worldly-wise as Morrigan tried to pretend to be, she had grown up in the middle of the wilds with only her mother. Perhaps it wasn’t exactly as sheltered as, say, being the daughter of a wealthy teyrn, or a boy who was raised in the cloistered environs of the Chantry, but it was up there on the list of “isolated and narrow upbringings.” Morrigan thought they should go straight after Loghain Mac Tir and kill him for betraying the King and besmirching the Wardens, but as much as she didn’t want to seem cowardly in Morrigan’s eyes, that idea had terrified Esme at the time. She agreed with Alistair: there was no way the small handful of people that comprised Grey Wardens And Friends were going to storm Denerim and stage a coup.

She couldn’t have known that Redcliffe would be a gauntlet of terrors and pain in its own right. When they headed that way, she envisioned eating a good meal, taking a bath, and sleeping in a soft bed in Redcliffe Castle while the Arl looked over the Grey Warden treaties and formulated a plan for what to do about… all of this.

It was not to be.

Redcliffe was a wake-up call, in more ways than one.

She decided, after Redcliffe, that she was in love with Alistair. She must be. She knew it because it was the first time he was well and truly upset with her, and she was devastated.

So, it must be love.

He had been silent and agitated for a while, not meeting her eye or responding to her with more than a curt “what?” or a heavy sigh. She knew he was unhappy… they were all unhappy, exhausted, scared. Even the usually unflappable Morrigan, who had gone into the Fade to battle a demon and had more right than any of them to be out of sorts, looked shaken and resentful of Esme for forcing her into it.

She expected them to be back to normal as soon as they were able to put some distance between themselves and the events at the castle, but she did not expect Alistair to finally stomp up to her the next time they made camp and say they needed to talk about Redcliffe. She was seated on a tree stump, working to clean and sharpen her sword; a soothing activity that helped her wind down. She treated the sword like her mother did fine silver.

But she froze when he approached, and drew herself up to a straight-backed position. Something about his obvious displeasure made her revert to an air of defensive nobility, like her mother might sound if she was having an argument. “I don't want to discuss it right now,” she said, turning away a little. “And I don’t think I like your tone.”

“Oh really?” he said, incredulous at being rebuffed. “Well here’s a shocker for you, I don’t care. I thought I knew who you were, but I was wrong about you. Completely wrong.” He was nearly vibrating with anger. “You let Lady Isolde sacrifice herself. With blood magic! How could you do that!?”

At first she was shocked, then angry, then mortified. Their whole visit to Redcliffe had been an ordeal from start to finish, and the last thing she needed was to be shouted at about it.

“It was Isolde’s decision, Alistair,” was all she could think to say, at first, pronouncing each syllable in his name deliberately. She was still seated and felt at a disadvantage, but also felt as if getting up would be acknowledging that they were fighting; so she stayed put and dragged the whetstone down the length of the sword blade.

That response didn’t please him at all. “The Arlessa was in no position to make that decision. She was grasping at straws. Of course she would sacrifice herself. She was his mother and she felt guilty for what happened. But there must have been another way!“

Esme snorted. “You think I should have killed the little boy instead?”

It had been mere weeks since she had seen Oren’s little body, dead. She wasn’t about to look upon something like that again, and it wouldn’t be done by her blade. She might have told Alistair that if he wasn’t being so damned self-righteous.

“No! Absolutely not. But we could have gone to the Circle of Magi. We could have tried harder. We should have tried something that didn’t involve blood magic, that’s for sure.”

“We already had this debate back at the castle,” she snapped. “A decision had to be made. I made it.”

Alistair had suggested going to the circle as an alternative when they were debating what could be done, and Bann Teagan had been in favor, but Lady Isolde had disagreed, worrying that the two day round trip to the Circle and back would take too long. She insisted that they had to save Connor now, before he could hurt anyone else or himself.

Esme had agreed with her, even though it was a hard decision. The Tower was just too far away. They didn’t _have_ two days to squander on the outside chance that the mages would help them, rather than just sending Templars to kill Jowan and Connor.

She supposed she was glad that Alistair rebuked the idea of murdering Connor. Killing abominations was something Templars were supposed to do without hesitation, even if they were children, but he wasn’t a full Templar, never having taken the vows to complete his training: something he was sure to remind her whenever she asked about his life in the Chantry or expressed interest in what made Templars different from ordinary warriors.

“I just don’t know how you could make that decision,” he told her now. He shook his head, adding mournfully, “I own the arl more than this. This is Eamon’s wife we’re talking about here. What do you think he’ll say when we revive him?”

She had no idea and she didn’t even want to speculate, so she sidestepped the question. She gave up her pretense of sharpening her sword and sat back, fixing him with a frank look. “So this is about you and him and not me at all.”

“No! Well… maybe. I don’t know,” he admitted, and it was a small sort of victory that didn’t make her feel any better. Especially when he added, “At least I care about what happens to the Arl and his family, and don’t just view them as an obstacle that needed to be dealt with as quickly as possible.”

Esme didn’t have it in her to keep fighting with him. Several biting retorts about him being unwilling to make any of the hard decisions but more than willing to judge her harshly sprouted to mind, but instead she just sighed and said, “I don’t know, maybe you’re right... I’m just trying to do my best, and I do feel badly, Alistair. So what do you want me to do?”

“Nothing,” he said, dismissing her offer with a downward wave of his hand, chopping at the air. “Don’t do anything. It’s done. I wouldn’t…” he sighed, starting to sound defeated. “Well, at least you care. I believe that, I suppose. It will have to be enough.”

She looked at the ground, nodding. “I understand.”

That seemed to take the rest of the wind out of his sails.  “Ahhh... why am I getting on your back about it?” he said, throwing his head back, gazing up at the moon and exhaling a long sigh which fogged slightly in the cool night air. “You did what you had to. It’s just… All this death…”

She didn’t respond. His sad resignation to the mess she had made was almost worse than the angry shouting, as it left no room for her to bury her insecurity in outrage.

“Never mind me, I guess I’m just an ass,” he muttered when she remained silent and would not look at him. “Let’s just stop there before I do more than shove my foot in my mouth like an idiot.”

Then he had retreated to his tent, which seemed to be set up more haphazardly than usual, and left her sitting there alternately stewing and fearing she might cry.

She looked down at the fire and blinked rapidly.

Soon, she sensed a towering presence blotting out the stars, and she looked up as Sten said, “You should crush him for speaking to you like that. A leader does not allow dissent.”

“We’re not on Par Vollen,” she snapped, a tad more harshly than she had meant to, hastily wiping away at some dampness on her face. “Anyhow I don’t need you telling me what to do. Don’t make me regret letting you out of that cage!”

Sten pressed his lips together in a hard line, then nodded and said, “Yes,” before strolling off to take a piss behind a tree.

She glanced around to see if anyone else had heard her outburst, but few people were still stirring in camp. She contemplated stamping out the campfire and trying to get some sleep, but all sleep brought were bad dreams, whether about darkspawn and dragons or undead and demon possessed children.

They had slept in the castle the last night, before leaving Redcliffe, and she had dreamed about Oren rising up from his pool of blood and staring at her, saying in a deep, demonic voice, “Where is Father?”

She awoke with a start, in the soft bed she had been so looking forward to a couple of days ago, and spent the rest of the night just staring at the dark ceiling. She knew that tonight would be no better, the only difference being that she could choose between the stars or tent canvas to stare at.

“Can’t sleep?” said Leliana’s lilting voice, and Esme turned to see the bard lowering herself to sit cross-legged on the ground next to her. She had her lute with her, and she plucked at it gently, absently. “Me neither. The moon is so large tonight, it feels almost like day. I can never sleep when the moon is full.”

“Are you a werewolf?” Esme asked, lightly, try to hide the tremor in the her voice.

They had not yet reached the Brecilian Forest. Werewolves were still a joking matter, a fairy tale monster, not as real or scary as darkspawn and demons.

Leliana chuckled. “Maybe. Wouldn’t you like to know?”

She had begun to play the lute, singing quietly, and Esme just sat there listening. Leliana was good like that. Sometimes she would ramble or tell stories, as if she knew just when the silence was too much. It calmed her, and eventually, she was able to get some sleep.

The next morning, as they were packing up camp, Alistair came up to her. She half expected him to say that he was leaving her, that they had to go their separate ways, because after her poor judgement in Redcliffe, he could not stand to travel with her, or fight beside her, or look upon her face.

“Good morning,” he said, standing just over her as she worked to roll up her tent into as compact a parcel as she could make it.

“Hmm,” she murmured as a response, tightening the knot around the roll.

“Look, I’m sorry about last night. I just wanted to tell you that. Again.”

She looked up in surprise.

“I’ve been giving it a lot of thought,” he went on. “I didn’t sleep really at all, last night, going over everything in my head. I realized I’m not being fair to you. I shouldn’t be second guessing you like this, not after I’ve dumped everything on your shoulders. It’s easy to question when you’re not the one making the decisions. And I’ve let you do just that, haven’t I?”

“What are you saying?” she asked.

“Just that I think you’re doing a good job as our leader. I’m sorry I blew up at you last night. I was frustrated with myself more than anything. I stood by and let it happen, so I’ve got no right to complain.”

She wasn’t sure she would go so far as to say she was doing a _good_ job leading. She’d had no idea what to do, after all, and it was because Jowan was the only one who had any sort of immediate plan, and Lady Isolde had been against going to the Circle of Magi, that she had agreed to the blood ritual. That wasn’t good leadership, it was looking for someone else to come up with the answers. The fact that she had volunteered Morrigan to go into the Fade and face the demon made it even worse, as she really shouldn’t have forced her friend to risk becoming an abomination herself.

Esme’s father would say that a commander never asks their soldiers to do anything they themself would not do.

Still, Alistair’s apology took a great weight off of her shoulders. She had been sure even after the end of their conversation last night that their alliance was broken, their friendship ended, and anything other than friendship squashed before it could even begin.

“Thank you for saying that,” she said. Then, impulsively, she stepped forward and hugged him. “It will be alright,” she told him. “We’ll do better next time.”

 _And hopefully, the Arl will forgive us for all this when he wakes up. If he wakes up,_ she thought, but didn’t want to bring up that touchy subject again.

Alistair seemed surprised by the embrace, stiffening a little bit, but she didn’t give him much more time to react. As soon as she had whispered her words of hope she quickly released him, the hug only lasting for a moment. It could easily be interpreted as a strictly platonic hug of camaraderie in dire times, and that was exactly how she wanted it, because she wasn’t sure about her own feelings and was afraid to prompt an outright rejection from him.

“If you two are quite finished with all this sickening bonding,” said Morrigan, appearing suddenly beside them, “we have a long way to go to reach Denerim, if we are to speak with this Brother Genitivi, and I do not wish to tarry.”

“Did you just transform from a bird or something?” Alistair asked crossly, as Esme backed away and resumed gathering up her things.

“Yes, it’s quite handy,” replied Morrigan, before sauntering away. “No one pays any attention to birds.”

 

* * *

 

Esme did not find out for a long time that Alistair was a bastard prince.

She did not know it when she first decided that she was in love with him.

She knew that no one believed her. Everyone thought she had married him for the throne.

Certainly, when they were married his was already King, but the first time they had flirted, then kissed, then shared a tent… she had not known.

She wished that this could be a fact she could have shouted from the battlements of the Palace in Denerim, or printed on flyers to be distributed in the street. Something to quiet the rumors that she was a social climber who had pursued Alistair for his title rather than out of love. Not that doing that would help, in fact would probably only make the rumors increase because the lady did protest too much. Her status as Hero of Ferelden didn’t count for much when there was juicy political gossip to be spread.

How had Wynne put it? The people would adore her as a hero until some small misstep allowed room for them to hate her. And while plenty of people loved her, their heroic Warrior Queen, she had enemies who delighted in trying to find chinks in her armor.

Alistair said that he had meant to broach the subject of his royal parentage before they got to Redcliffe, but had been interrupted by the man who came running across the bridge to tell them about the undead threat. After that, one thing led to another, and it wasn’t until they had revived Arl Eamon that the topic became unavoidable.

She’d been upset with him when she had to find out about it from listening to Eamon and Teagan talk about him as a candidate for the Throne. Looking back, she was embarrassed that she had not known it sooner. He was the spitting image of his half-brother, King Cailan, and it also explained why he was so emotional over the death of the king. She had not known just how emotional, until they had returned to Ostagar on their way to the Brecilian Forest, and found the dead King’s corpse naked and crucified, a ghoulish mockery in the ruins.

Alistair had never had a relationship with his brother, but family meant a lot to him, even family that cared not at all for him. She’d learned that about him when he spoke of Duncan, who had become a surrogate father in his mind after only six months of knowing the man, or of his dead mother and her broken amulet, of Eamon, and of Goldanna, the half-sister whom he had wanted to meet so badly. Esme might have put two and two together when he reacted so strongly to seeing the dead king, his dead brother. Just as strongly as she might have if it had been Fergus pinioned on the Ostagar bridge, rotting under the blighted sun.

They had reclaimed Cailan's armor from the darkspawn, and he had worn it after that day, “in tribute,” he’d said. She should have noticed how well it fit and how like Cailan he looked when wearing it, but she had not. She had been distracted by other things.

He might have told her, at Ostagar, what Cailan really meant to him. But he didn’t. And that hurt her when she realized it.

She thought she deserved some honesty, even if he didn’t like for most people to know.

Somewhere along the way after leaving Redcliffe, between traveling to Denerim, then back to Lake Calenhad and to the far remote village of Haven and the ruined temple that lay beyond, they had conducted a halting, shy courtship that eventually resulted in nighttime embraces that were not mistakable for platonic camaraderie.

They were inexperienced and clumsy, far too sheltered in their old lives to have learned how to conduct an intimate affair with grace. But they were learning together, and that was good.

Part of what had made her open to his clumsy attempts at flirting, and shyly wooing her with wilted flowers and self-deprecating jokes, had been that she felt so very far removed from the life of a noblewoman’s daughter that she had once led. Young Esme had been against the idea of growing up to be married off to some arl’s son, had been unable to see herself living that life, but there was no such domestic picture in her future with Alistair.

There wasn’t really a future to picture, at all. There was only the road, the fight, and the sweet moments of reprieve that came in between all the death and destruction. There was only the Blight to be contested and whatever small amount of joy that could be stolen. She had no care for her noble virtue, or whatever the Chant of Light had to say about extramarital dalliances. All of that seemed petty when they were constantly facing death and trying to save the world. So she did what she wanted. (Alistair joked that according to the cloistered sisters they should have been struck by lightning, but as far as she could tell, the only danger of lightning came from the end of Morrigan’s staff).

Still, the lack of complete honesty hurt her, because he hadn’t trusted her with the secret until he absolutely had to, despite what he claimed about his thwarted intentions the first time they neared Redcliffe.

But she quickly decided that it was the naive noblewoman’s daughter she had been, feeling this slight, not the experienced Grey Warden she was now. Alistair did not think of himself as a prince with a claim to the throne, he thought of himself as a Grey Warden, and that is who he had been with her. So she forgave him the deception easily and quickly.

After forgiveness came the contemplation that maybe, one day, they actually could be King and Queen. That if they survived the Blight, there was some kind of other future there. And it did not have to be the suffocating future she had feared as a girl, because she loved Alistair and he loved her. That made all the difference, didn’t it? He would never force her to forswear her sword, take up embroidery, or sit demurely in the corner playing a harp, because clearly, if that was the sort of woman he wanted, he wouldn’t be with her now.

Others may sneer at her and call her mercenary, or remark on how utterly convenient it was that she had just happened to fall in love with the last Theirin.

And hate it though she did, she could not deny that when she first found out, and she let herself dwell on the possibilities, she very much liked the idea of being Queen.

She may have pushed aside her identity as a Cousland in favor of being a Grey Warden, out of sheer necessity, but in her heart she still yearned for revenge and justice, to see her family’s killers be punished and her title restored. How fitting, then, that she should rise from her family’s ashes, like a phoenix, to take back all the power the Cousland name had lost, and more.

The fact that Alistair seemed unhappy with the idea of being King was an obstacle.

And there, perhaps, was where the truth of the matter that tormented her lay.

He hadn’t wanted to be King. She had wanted him to be King.

She had cajoled and counseled and pushed and prodded him until he was convinced that he wanted to be King, after all.

While Arl Eamon began making preparations for a Landsmeet, they busied themselves elsewhere, diverting their attention to fulfilling the Grey Warden treaties and gathering up allies in the fight against the darkspawn. All that time, she had spent building him up. 

Until it came to the point at the Landsmeet where he was not only acquiescing to be King as others wished, but wishing it for himself.

And yet... part of her would always wonder if he did truly come to wish it, or if he was fooling himself, forcing himself to want what she wanted him to want. Had it all been for her, and was she ungrateful to not be happy? If it weren’t for her pushing, he may very well have been content to let Anora keep her rule, so that he could remain Alistair, just Alistair the Grey Warden, not King Alistair Theirin.

Perhaps it wouldn’t have mattered, if she could have been the Queen she had meant to be, and not the unreliable, unhappy Princess Consort she had turned out to be.

Could they have known deeper happiness if he had never become King? If they had never resigned their official statuses as Wardens, would they always face whatever troubles that arose together?

Or was that even more naive than the thought that being King and Queen would mean perfect happiness? The Grey Warden life was hard and not without its impossible choices and crippling responsibility, as the Blight and the aftermath at Amaranthine had taught her several times over.

And then, of course, there would still be the matter of Morrigan.


	4. Lovers

* * *

_9:31 Dragon_

* * *

 

“You're the first woman I've ever spent the night with, and if I have my way you'll be the last.”

That declaration of love rang in Esme’s ears as she marched down the hallway from her guest room within Redcliffe Castle, to Alistair’s.

It seemed that every time they came to Redcliffe Castle, their relationship would be tested.

She knocked softly at his door, half hoping he was already asleep and she could just use that as an excuse not to have this conversation. But that was weak, and she knew it. Tomorrow they may die. She had done harder things than this before and would, likely, have harder things to do in the future. She steeled herself with this harsh pep talk, and when he said, “Who is it?” she opened the door.

“It’s just me.” She shut his bedroom door behind her. The click seemed too loud, foreboding.

“I see you can’t sleep either,” he said, smiling at her, his tone fond and his face trusting.

He was lounging on the bed, not sleeping, but flipping through a book.

She had no idea how to gracefully broach the subject of Morrigan’s proposal, so she just stood there near the door, fidgeting.

“So…” he said, filling the awkward silence, “I saw Morrigan outside your room earlier, and the look she gave me… oof. That was icy even for her. Is something up?”

It seemed almost as if he were reading her mind, but she didn’t take advantage of the opening. She sidestepped the question entirely at first. “You can’t sleep? Are you alright?”

“Not really.” He sighed. “All these men look at me… I can see it in their eyes. I’m their _king._ Suddenly it feels so real.”

She nodded a made a sympathetic, empty noise, her mind still buzzing with the thought that he was never, ever going to say yes to what she was there to ask of him.

“What are you reading?” she asked.

“How To Be A King,” he said, with a half-hearted chuckle, shutting the book and pushing it away. “Or something along those lines. I thought it would put me to sleep but I think it’s just giving me anxiety.”

“You will be a good king,” she assured him. “A great king.”

He smiled doubtfully, the way he often did when she was trying to talk up his confidence. “And here I was worried about merely being a decent king.” Then he narrowed his eyes, suspicious. “But now you’re changing the subject. This isn’t about me, it’s about Morrigan. I’m tired but I’m not stupid. What did she want?”

_Maker, here goes…_

“Alistair… we need to talk,” she said, taking a deep breath.

“Oh.” He sat up straighter on the bed, and stared at her with new apprehension. “I guess whatever Morrigan had to say, it’s big. This is what I get for being king,” he added with a laugh, trying to hide his nerves. “So what is it then? Rats running amok? Cheese shortage run low? I can take it.”

Her palms were sweating, her mind went blank. She didn’t move any closer to him, staying near the closed door. “I need you to sleep with Morrigan.”

He fell against the mattress, laughing, “Alright, that’s pretty funny. Great way to cut the tension.”

Then he straightened up again and said, sheepishly, “Though... since you’ve brought it up, and in the spirit of complete transparency, I will tell you, I had a dream once—ONCE mind you—where we were… y’know. But it wasn’t a good dream! No, no. She turned into a spider halfway through. You know, that big ugly blighted spider she sometimes transforms into when we’re in a battle? Yeah, that. And with the whole nasty pounce and devour maneuver? Definitely and absolutely a nightmare, yeah.”

At the horrified, stricken look on her face, he waved his hands and said, “Nevermind, never mind! Joking! Forget I brought that up. You’re the only woman I’ve ever thought about; I swear.”

“Alistair...”

He got up off the bed and drew nearer to where she stood with her back pressed up against the door. She knew that she looked like she was about to bolt at any minute.

He became very serious. “Tell me, what’s really going on? What did she actually want?”

“I love you,” she said, maintaining eye contact. “You know that, right?”

“I do, and I feel the same,” he said. He took her hand, drew her away from the door. They went to the bed and sat on the edge, side by side. He still held her hand. “But could you make it sound any more ominous? Tell me already.”

“I need you to do something you won’t like. I need you to take part in a magic ritual.”

“I don’t care for the sound of that. What are we talking about, exactly?”

“I told you. You need to perform a ritual with Morrigan.”

He gave her an incredulous, _“oh, please”_ look, and then that faded as he began to truly entertain the idea. He dropped her hand and shifted nervously on the bed. “Maker, you’re serious. You’re not actually asking me to do this, are you? What is this ‘ritual’ for? It doesn’t actually involve sex, does it? I don’t understand.”

“It’s for the battle tomorrow.”

“That’s… a little vague.”

“It will save whoever has to kill the archdemon.”  
  
“Ah. Yes, I can see how that might be… important. But how does Morrigan even know how to do such a thing?”

“It’s some kind of ancient magic. Flemeth’s probably.”

“Well that’s reassuring. No, wait, it isn’t.” He rolled his eyes. “I _told_ you not to give her that grimoire.”

He had been there when she went to kill Flemeth for Morrigan; she had known he wouldn’t like doing Morrigan’s dirty work for her, but she had known she would need his Templar abilities to fight the powerful, ancient maleficar. And so he had agreed to help kill Morrigan’s mother, but had argued against giving Morrigan the grimoire containing all of Flemeth’s rituals and spells.

“Magic is magic,” she insisted now. “Even if it comes from Flemeth’s grimoire, that doesn’t change anything.”

“ _Magic is magic?_ Who are you talking to?” He made a show of looking over his shoulder and around the room. “Of course it changes things! What if this is blood magic? I bet it’s blood magic, isn’t it.”

She winced. Beating around the bush was getting them nowhere. She resolved to be direct, but she also knew this was going to be the hardest part, so she stood up, placing herself directly in front of him. He looked up at her dubiously as she took his hands in hers, gazing as earnestly as she could into his eyes. “I won’t lie to you. It will produce a child.”

“What?” he burst incredulously, yanking his hands away from hers. Then he carefully lowered his voice, somehow managing to whisper and still sound like his was shouting. “I… I _must_ be hearing things, but are you telling me to _impregnate_ Morrigan in some kind of _magical sex rite_?”

She held up her hands placatingly. “That… well, it sounds bad when you say it like that.”

“In what way would it sound _good?_ Andraste’s flaming sword, woman. You’ve lost your mind.” He stood up and brushed past her, beginning to pace back and forth. “This… this child. Why would Morrigan want such a thing? Does she want an heir to the throne?”

“I think she wants to make some kind of Old God.”

Whatever bit of composure he was clinging too seemed to slip away, and he said, “Oh, well, that’s so much better, don’t you think? Here I was, worried about a bastard heir and I didn’t even consider that it might also be some dragon… god… whatever!” It came out in one long jumble, his voice pitching higher with each word.

“Please, Alistair. Calm down and just listen to me. It’s not as crazy as it sounds. It could be our only chance at survival tomorrow.”

He stopped pacing and sat heavily in a chair, resting his elbows on his knees as he gazed at the floor, avoiding have to look at her. His expression was still anxious, but he seemed to be trying to calm himself down. “Look,” he said, after a moment, “even if I was willing to entertain this idea… and I’m not saying I am…” he lifted his eyes to her again, “is this really what you want me to do? Are you sure…?”

She went over to him and sat back down on the edge of the bed near his chair, close enough to reach out and take his hand again. She nodded solemnly. “I’m sure this is the right thing to do.”

He almost nodded back, but then caught himself and shook his head. “No, I can’t… I can’t do it. You can’t ask me to do this, not like this.”

“I would do it myself if I could.”

That completely unraveled his patience with her.

“Mm. I’m sure you would,” he grunted, snatching his band back a second time and standing up, moving away from her.

“That’s petty,” she said, reflexively. She immediately regretted it, since she was supposed to be convincing, not antagonizing.

“I’m don’t particularly care at the moment,” he said. “Oh… I should have seen this coming. You and Morrigan are always so… cozy.”

“What does that mean?”

“I feared that your befriending her would lead to something bad, you know, but I had no idea it would be something like this. I worried that she would take advantage of you, not that you would… that you would…”

“You’re being unfair to her, as you always are,” Esme said, peeved now. “She is not a bad person, I believe that. You can never see past the fact that she makes fun of you and it hurts your feelings. So _clearly_ she must be evil.”

He just scoffed.

“You can’t fool me Alistair. I know you too well by now. I know that you would get along with her just fine if she laughed at your jokes and flirted with you.”

“I’m sorry, am I dreaming? Is this the Fade? Are you taking me to task about Morrigan because I don’t want to have sex with her? Are you a demon wearing Esme’s face? Because if so, you’re not a very convincing demon, and I’d like to wake up now.”

“That’s not funny.”

“I’m not laughing.”

“Look, I’m just saying that Morrigan is offering a genuine solution, so that neither of us has to die. So that we can actually end the Blight _and_ be together, as we had planned. Surely sleeping with Morrigan isn’t so high a price.”

“High enough.”

“Do you really want to risk dying tomorrow?”

“We don’t know what will happen tomorrow. Riordan could end it. Or both of us could die before we even get close. But… if f it comes to that, yes—I will gladly die to end the Blight.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “No. I won’t accept that. I’ve lost too many people, I refuse to lose you as well. If anyone dies killing the archdemon tomorrow, it’s me. Then you’ll have to go on, alone. You’re the King now.”

“Oh no, I’ve decided… it would be my first and last act as King. Ending the Blight. Fitting, yeah? Then Anora can rule; she’d be better at it anyway, I suppose, even if I do try my best. I’ll have been King for a day so they’ll pencil me into the next volume of that Genealogy. Maybe if I’m lucky they'll put up a statue of me and everyone can remember me as ten times more heroic and handsome than I was.”

“Don’t be so callous.”

“Callous? You want me to do blood sex magic out of cowardice to save my own life: that’s callous. I thought we learned something the first time we were here, but clearly I was mistaken.” He turned to face the fire, putting his back to her. “If you loved me you wouldn’t ask this of me.”

Her heart pounded in her chest. “You have it all wrong. If you really loved me, you would do this for me. You would never be so cruel as to die just to spite me and Morrigan.”

She saw his back tense, his arms crossed. And then he relaxed, slumping his shoulders, sighing.

“So, that’s how it’s going to be, is it?” he asked, softly. He returned to the chair, flopping down into it as if it was a guillotine. He dragged his hands down his face, which looked haggard in the firelight, as if the Landsmeet and this conversation had aged him ten years in one week. “We’re going to spend our last night together fighting and hurling accusations?”

“It doesn’t have to be that way. It doesn’t have to be our last night. You have to trust me, Alistair.”

“I do trust you. I have trusted you every step of the way. I just… it’s not right.”

“Do this, and later you can tell me all about how much you disapprove of Morrigan and her magic—while we celebrate saving the world and living to reap the rewards.” She slid off the bed and onto her knees, truly begging now. “Our lives don’t have to be short and brutal and end in sacrifice to be worthy of the Grey Warden name. We have too much to live for—a good life waiting for us, and a kingdom which will be better for our presence in it. And I trust Morrigan enough to know that she will not raise an evil darkspawn child… you don’t know her like I do, so just trust me. This is for the best.”

“Fine, alright,” he sighed, miserably. “I give up. I’ll do it. I suppose I’ll just have to live with the fact that you have me completely wrapped around your finger. Maker,” he sounded disgusted with himself, now, “is there nothing you can’t talk me into doing?”

“If this were truly an evil thing, I wouldn’t ask it of you.”

“I’ve already said yes, you don’t have to keep begging,” he said, standing up and pulling her up with him. “But you know it’s not just the magic i’m unhappy about.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to do sleep with Morrigan if it wasn’t a matter of life or death.”

He uttered a laugh that was more of a groan. “Sleeping with Morrigan or being devoured by an archdemon, I truly don’t know what’s worse. Ugh... where is she? Let’s go and get this over with before I change my mind.”

Esme had always suspected that he made such a show of being disgusted by Morrigan to hide some amount of attraction. But now she wondered if she was just telling herself that to feel less guilty about this coercion.

When they returned to Esme’s room, where Morrigan still waited by the fire, Alistair immediately confronted her about the idea of the child. Morrigan seemed curiously surprised that Esme had been honest about it, but she patiently—if patronizingly—assured Alistair that she had no interest in the throne and that the child would not be evil.

By that point, Esme knew that he would do it, as he had agreed, that he was only repeating his questions to Morrigan to delay the task.

With both of them looking at him expectantly, Alastair sighed and said, “Maker’s breath, this is really happening. Let’s get this over with before I change my mind.”

Morrigan nodded, satisfied. “Come along then, Alistair. I do not think this will be quite as unpleasant as you might imagine.”

She began to direct him out the door, out of Esme’s bedchamber and towards her own. Esme found herself automatically following behind them, like a sentinel. When they reached Morrigan’s door, the mage turned and looked at Esme curiously. “I think this may best be done in private. Your presence is not necessary.”

Before Esme could respond, chastised and embarrassed, Alistair interjected, “Oh I think I’d rather she were in the room. On guard, just in case you decide to turn into a spider and eat me.”

“Very well, it makes no real difference,” said Morrigan, archly, and opened the door, ushering them into the room.

There were candles lit around the bed and the smell of woodsy incense permeated the room. Morrigan had certainly been preparing.

She glided over to a table, where many of her herbs, extracts, and minerals were scattered around with balm and elixir making supplies. She picked a large goblet up and turned back towards Alistair, who was looking at the downturned sheets on the bed.

“Drink this,” Morrigan said, holding out the goblet. It was large and silver, reminding Esme of the Joining chalice. Perhaps it even was that same cup, salvaged from the ruins of Ostagar.

Alistair took the cup and peered at its contents, frowning. “If this has all been an elaborate scheme to poison me…”

“If I wanted to poison you I could have done it many times over, and you would have been none the wiser.”

“Reassuring.”

She sighed, crossing her arms. “This from a man who willingly drank darkspawn blood.”

“That was different. I trusted Duncan.”

She made a _tch_ noise, then said, “Tis merely a concoction of herbs and berries that will aid you in the ritual. An aphrodisiac and a stamina drought, if you will. I thought twould be necessary to make this go smoothly, to speed things along.”

“Do I have to drink it for the ritual to work?”

“No,” she said, shifting her hips impatiently, “but I suggest that you do, as twill make this all far easier.”

“Mm, alright,” he said dubiously. “Bottom’s up.”

“Good boy,” said Morrigan, watching him down the elixir.

He grimaced. “Don’t talk to me like I’m a dog.”

She opened her mouth to rejoin with something cutting and sarcastic, but must have thought better of it at the last moment, and simply said, “As you wish.”

Alistair looked to Esme as he set the goblet down on the bedside table. “Tasted like gooseberry wine,” he said, as if that mattered. “I’ve had worse.”

“Twill take a few moments for the effects to kick in,” said Morrigan. “In the meantime, take off your clothes.” She walked over to the dresser where her mother’s grimoire lay open, and contemplated its pages for a moment.

Alistair looked again to Esme, and she nodded. He began to undress with a shyness he had not exhibited in some time, even though Morrigan’s back was turned. His shoulders were bunched and his entire frame turned inward, protectively.

Esme stood there, feeling equally as nervous but somewhat monstrous as well. She had begged him to do this and she didn’t really know if it was going to be worth it. What if they died, despite taking this chance? There were better ways to spend what was possibly their last night alive, surely.

Morrigan turned around, and rolled her eyes when she saw how little progress Alistair had made. Then she glanced to Esme, who was standing rigidly by the door like a Templar supervising a Harrowing, and chided, “If you’re not going to at least help, perhaps you shouldn’t be here after all? You’re making him nervous.”

“I’m sorry,” Esme said, automatically. But she had no intention of leaving, so she just continued to stand there.

“For the love of… how have the two of you managed at all up to this point? Take off your clothes as well,” Morrigan directed with a wave of her hand, then almost immediately added, “Ah, I know, I will help you.” She crossed the room, saying to Alistair, “I think you’ll have no objection, will you? Don’t deny that you have thought about something like this.”

“I haven’t.”

“Liar,” she said, slyly. “But be churlish if you wish, you are only making yourself miserable.”

Then, to Esme, “May I?” as she reached for the laces that tied up the bodice over Esme’s shirt.

Esme just nodded, and soon Morrigan’s fingers were deftly and quickly undoing the laces. Esme’s heart began to pound in her chest, and she wondered if Morrigan could feel it, or see the pulse quickening in her neck. Morrigan’s eyes were downturned, intent on her work, and Esme looked at her lashes against her pale cheeks. She was slightly shorter than Esme, though something about her normal bearing—head held back, hips out, languid, yet ready to swing her staff from her back at a moment’s notice—usually made her seem taller than everyone else.

As soon as the bodice was off, shunted to the floor, Morrigan pulled Esme’s shirt up over her head. Esme lifted her arms obediently, and as the plaidweave cloth cleared her face, Morrigan surprised her by leaning in and brushing her lips with a kiss.

Startled, Esme drew back, but then impulsively stepped forward to return the kiss. If Morrigan had not expected such an eager response, she did not show it. Her lips were soft, but slightly waxy from the deep maroon paint she covered them with, and her mouth tasted like crushed berries. A deep red wine.

Esme drew back, and Morrigan smiled, looking amused. Then she turned her smug smile in Alistair’s direction, and Esme realized that for a moment she had forgotten about him. Just for a moment. He was watching them intently, but she really couldn’t say if it was an expression of arousal, horror, or horrified arousal.

Morrigan gave her a push towards the bed, saying, “Go get him ready for me.”

Esme crawled onto the bed with Alistair and for a few moments it was just the two of them. She cupped his face in her hands, and he said, “You’re a madwoman,” but he kissed her, and grabbed her around the waist, pulling her close.

Morrigan and Leliana had once cornered her, weeks ago, to ask her indelicately if Alistair was any good in bed. At the time it had seemed innocent, girlish gossip among friends. Morrigan had said he _must_ be “pleasant enough in bed” to make her smile foolishly at him all the time, and Leliana had giggled and made jokes about the little Templar being all grown up and playing well with others. Morrigan’s laugh had been downright derisive when Leliana had said that, prompting Alistair to shoot them a suspicious look from a distance, and ask what they were giggling about, to which Esme had merely said, “Darkspawn.”

Esme couldn’t help but think of this, to recall the shrieks of laughter in the cold night air, now that she was trying to make love while Morrigan stood at the end of the bed, waiting and watching.

She looked over her shoulder, as Alistair kissed her neck hungrily. The drink Morrigan had given him seemed to be doing its job, and his nervousness had given way to desire with Esme close to him. When Esme turned, she saw Morrigan standing there, arms crossed, a curious expression on her face. It was almost as if she’d never, well… _done_ this before.

Perhaps she hadn’t. Who would she have done anything with, after all? Chasind men or women in the wilds, Esme supposed. Or a trip to the Pearl when no one was paying attention, or a tryst with Zevran or Leliana. But with the way gossip spread around their camp like the blight itself, Esme doubted that would have happened without her hearing about it from someone.

“Are you going to stand there staring all night?” she asked, a little breathlessly.

Morrigan just smiled, then undid the straps that held her tattered belt-skirt around her hips and let it fall to the floor. She left on the assortment of sashes, string, and necklaces which she wore as a shit. Then she knelt on the bed and nudged Esme out of the way.

What followed was awkward and grasping and nerve-wracking, for Esme, and undoubtedly for Alistair as well, who was sweating and silent as he tried to handle two woman in his bed. Though it was not _his bed_ , but Morrigan’s, which was quite clear in how things went between the three of them.

Morrigan seemed uninterested in Alistair’s comfort, or his “pleasantness,” pushing him down flat on his back and straddling him in a commanding, businesslike manner.

“You are a heartless shrew, you know that?” he gasped out, grabbing for her wrists. He managed to hold onto one, while she snatched the other from his grasp.

She just threw back her head and laughed. “Is that an endearment?” she said, mockingly. “From you I shall take it as a compliment.”

“Take it however you want.”

She smiled a wicked smile and leaned forward, till her lips brushed against his ear, and she said something so quietly that Esme couldn’t hear. At the same time, she used her free hand to guide Alistair's cock inside of her, sinking all the way down till she taken all of him. She pulled back, rocking her hips and shutting her eyes, her mouth slackening and her expression losing its practiced aloofness.

Esme watched them with wide eyes, pushed off to the side as she was. She felt like an extra piece that did not fit into the puzzle, now that it was really happening, now that Morrigan really was having sex with Alistair right in front of her. Suddenly she wished she had just stayed out of this room, with only her imagination to torment her.

Morrigan opened her eyes, taking notice of Esme’s plight. She reached out, uncharacteristically clumsily, and pulled Esme towards them by the arm. Esme’s knees caught on the rumpled bedspread and she fell forward across Alistair’s chest, making him _oof_ awkwardly. “Sorry, sorry,” she muttered, mortified in so many ways. But them pulled herself up and gingerly straddled him, hovering just about him as she knelt, facing Morrigan.

Morrigan’s eyes seemed to mock her, though it was her smile that Esme focused on, drawn to the other woman’s lips. They curved in a familiar smirk, but the paint was smudged, smeared around the edges from the earlier kiss.

Esme kissed her again, longer and deeper, tasting her tongue and brushing her hands along the strings that still covered Morrigan’s breasts. She had always seemed to keep herself covered through magic alone—even in battle when she was moving about and the strategically placed shawl should have shifted treacherously, it all stayed just perfectly, barely in place. But Esme got no resistance as she pushed it aside, now, and felt the warm, soft curve of Morrigan’s slight breasts. Her nipples were hard small beads against Esme’s palms, and she moaned into Esme’s mouth, still rocking her hips slowly, rhythmically against Alistair.

Alistair grabbed for Esme’s waist and pulled her towards him, away from Morrigan. She let herself be pulled, and he slid his hands down into her breeches, tugging them down around her hips. This was followed by more awkward fumbling as Esme tried to swing one leg carefully over so that she could pull her pants off without kicking him in the head, and Morrigan laughed, but it wasn’t such a derisive laugh as it might have been. There was something so very absurd about the whole situation that Esme couldn’t help but laugh softly, too.

Alistair was the only one not laughing. He pulled her now naked bottom towards his face, and her laughter turned into a surprised gasp. “M-maker,” she said, holding Morrigan’s forearms to steady herself. Her legs felt weak as he ate her cunt like it was juicy, forbidden, fruit. They had never done something like _that,_ before, and she wasn’t even sure where he had gotten the idea.

(Zevran, maybe…)

Morrigan got a wicked look on her face, and yanked Esme by the arms, pulling her away from Alistair’s mouth. He reacted by wrapping his arms around Esme’s thighs and holding on for dear life, pulling her down until she thought he might suffocate himself. There would be bruises on her thighs and her arms, the next day.

Esme started to feel like a pawn in a game of dominance between the two of them, and she tried to shake her arms free of Morrigan’s grip, saying crossly, “Stop fighting over me.”

“As you wish.” Morrigan abruptly let go of her, causing her to fall backwards, free of Alistair and Morrigan both. Then Morrigan ground her pelvis roughly against Alistair, riding him hard for a minute while Esme rolled over to the side and flopped onto her stomach. Grumpy and embarrassed, she turned her head away, not reacting even as Alistair reached out for her, running a hand down her back.

In a minute, it was all over. Alistair came with a groan and curse.

Morrigan slid off the bed and grabbed her skirt off the floor, shimmying back into it and pulling the cinch tight around her waist. She shifted her upper body coverings around until they were perfectly in place again.

“I must do some things to ensure the success of the ritual,” she said, her tone dispassionate, as if she had not been gasping or moaning only moments before. She seemed actually a little embarrassed, for the first time, as if what had happened surprised her now, and she made no eye contact as she added, “Alistair, your part is finished. We are done. You both may go.”

She sat down at the table and rattled some empty vials around in an unconvincing show of busyness.

Alistair wasted no time in clambering off the bed and retrieving his shirt and pants. He wiped off his face with the back of his arm. “Right then,” he said, gathering up Esme’s things and handing them to her.

They left the room silently, only Esme glancing briefly back to see Morrigan take a deep breath and assume a meditative pose. Esme hesitated, but Alistair’s hand was on her back, steering her out. He was eager to be free of Morrigan’s room, with its claustrophobic shadows and its wild woodland smell, now mingled with the scent of sex and sweat and magic.

If any servant or member of their party were up and about, spying around corners to see them disheveled, stealthily creeping away from Morrigan’s room, Esme did not see them. In the years that followed, however, she became sure that Leliana knew exactly what had happened. Leliana always seemed to somehow know everything.

Once they were outside Esme’s door, she paused and uncertainly whispered to Alistair, “Do you want to be alone, or will you stay with me?”

“I will do whatever you want me to.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“Of course I don’t want to spend what may be the last night of my life alone… especially after all that,” he said, seeming put off that she would think otherwise, and opened the door, motioning for her to go inside. He followed her into her room and shut the door.

The fire and candles were still burning. Esme went around extinguishing the various candles in their sconces on the walls, but the hearth still lit the room in a bright warm glow. Alistair had made a bee-line for the washbasin, grabbing a cloth. He dunked it in the water, splashing all over the bureau and floor, then scrubbed vigorously to get rid of all traces of Morrigan.

Esme said nothing, lowering the candle snuffer over the flames in silence.

“Your face,” said Alistair, standing behind her as she extinguished the last candle, and she turned, looking at him quizzically.

“My face?”

“It’s all… er… dirty. With her makeup.” He still had the damp washcloth in his hand, and he stepped closer, reaching out with it. She noticed the Guerrin crest embroidered in the corner. He wiped her face, something no one since her nursemaid had done, and she stood very still, frozen, simply staring up at him as he scrubbed the purple stain from her lips.

“Better?” she asked, when he lowered the cloth and just stared at her for a long moment.

“Yes.” He leaned forward to kiss her, and she was surprised by that. Somehow, she had thought he would want some space after their mortifying threesome. Some distance, perhaps.

His kiss was simple and brief at first, like a goodnight kiss. But he didn’t stop with one, instead giving her a series of kisses that lengthened with each repetition. His ever-present stubble scratched at her face, but she had always loved that, loved that it gave even his softest kisses a bite. Kissing him was so very different than kissing Morrigan, whose lips were all smooth and buttery and sweet with her balm of crushed berries and beeswax. His mouth tasted of salt and sweat, and a sourness from where he had kissed and licked at her wetness earlier.

She still felt wet and ready, for she had been left out of their gasping, writhing finish. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and pulled him down close in a tight embrace. He dropped the Arl’s fancy embroidered washcloth onto the floor and soon he was steering her over to the bed and down onto the mattress.

She went eagerly, her unsatisfied need rising in her. She also took his willingness to go a second round as a sign that the transgressions of the night could be forgiven. It was just the two of them again, as it had been before, as it would be always after.

But of course it wasn’t like before. There was a desperate urgency to all his kisses and caresses, in the way he held her tightly under him, as if she might slip away otherwise.

She closed her eyes and thought about the first time she and Alistair had lain together: first sneaking into her tent together as if worried about the others in the camp seeing, then fumbling with each other’s clothing and limbs, laughing breathlessly at the absurd awkwardness of intimacy. It had been a good night. She remembered that special, unrepeatable feeling of it _finally_ happening after weeks of teasing and joking and hinting, followed by seriously discussing whether they should do such a thing, whether they could allow themselves to indulge in love while the world was ending. For someone who joked so much, he had taken it all so seriously, and it had endeared her to him even when his caution frustrated her. She remembered how she had thought that her mother would have been happy for her—how despite their unwed state, she would have approved of the boy Esmeralda had chosen… respectful and gentle and eager to please.

Now, when she opened her eyes, all she could see of him was the side of his cheek, his ear, the ends of his hair slicked against his neck with sweat. He had one hand tangled in her hair, pulling on it and loosening the carefully coiled braids that she had not had a chance to unplait for the night, but his face was turned away, pressed into the pillow beside her. She kissed his neck, and he lifted his head, turning back towards her, kissing her mouth so possessively she thought she would suffocate from it.

When they were finished they lay very still, side-by-side, each staring at some other part of the room. She could not shut her eyes or sleep, and instead fixed her attention on small insignificant details about the room… like the cobweb she could see fluttering in the hot air from the hearth, the texture of the silken duvet on the bed, the distant sound of faint lute music from a sleepless bard.

She heard nothing but quiet, steady breathing from him, but she knew he did not sleep.

Finally, Esme couldn’t take the silence, and said, “Are you upset?”

“No. Are you?”

“No,” she said, but it was a lie. She was upset, but she didn’t know with whom. Herself? Alistair? Morrigan? Everyone?

“I’m tired,” he said. “Exhausted.” A long pause. “Whatever she gave me, it’s finally wearing off now.”

Esme had forgotten about the drink. Was that the only reason he had just made love to her, after having finished the ritual with Morrigan? She felt foolish for not thinking that sooner.

She didn’t know what time it was; some deep dark part of the night, early morning witching hour, but the march to Denerim on the morrow was still hours away. She knew that they should sleep, not lie awake talking about what they had done, so she said, “Of course,” and rolled onto her side.

Alistair didn’t stir for several minutes, but then she could feel him moving about, tugging at the blankets, and she resisted it for a moment, for no logical reason she could name. But then she sat up and schooched away so that he could pull the blankets back. As soon as she had crawled between the sheets with him, Alistair curled up against her back, snuggling and spooning her the same way he had every night in the tent since the first time.

They lay in the middle of the large, plush bed, holding onto to each other but saying nothing, as close as two people could physically be but still remain alone with their thoughts. She did not sleep for a long time, turning the events of the night over in her mind compulsively, until finally at some point, as the fire in the hearth burned down to ashes, she closed her eyes and dreamt of the horde moving implacably through Ferelden and of the dragon, its cries a marching song, one she could hear, one she could almost understand…

She was awoken by the sun flooding the room, and squinting up she saw Alistair standing by the window, having just flung open the heavy velvet curtains. Dust motes rioted in the air like a snowstorm, and she blinked with freshly awoken confusion. He looked over to her and said, “Good! You’re awake! No time to lay about, my love, today we begin our march to Denerim.”

He seemed exceedingly cheerful, and for a moment she thought she must have imagined last night.

He came around the bed and flung the covers off of her. She grunted angrily, grasping for the warm comfort of the coverings, but it was out of reach. He grabbed her outstretched hand and pulled her to her feet. “Get dressed, then it’s out to the courtyard, where I get to give a speech! To the army! I am about to lead! Because I’m the King!”

“Are you alright?” she asked, still squinting in the too bright morning light.

“Alright? I’m more than alright: I’m the luckiest man in Ferelden.” He clapped his hands and moved away, yanking on clothes as he ranted:

“Soon we’ll be cutting whole swathes of darkspawn to pieces and battling with orges; then if we’re still alive, we can fight the archdemon, and if we’re still alive after that, we become heroes of legend.” He stopped by the table where some industrious servants had already laid out cheese and fresh fruit for breakfast, and popped a cube of cheddar in his mouth. “So, I’m looking forward to it. The screaming, the running, the bleeding all over my armor. I suppose being King means I won’t have to scrub my own blood out of my clothes anymore, will I? Unexpected perks.”

There he was, the Alistair she knew. Deflecting serious matters with cheerful sarcasm… if a bit more manic with thinly veiled terror than usual. It seemed he was determined to forget last night and move on as if it had not happened. She supposed that was for the best. He was right, they had a four day march to chase after the darkspawn ahead of them, and then when they got to Denerim they would find the city undoubtedly in ruins, overrun by the army that would beat them there no matter how brutally they drove their ranks forward.

And so she shoved her fears, anxiety, and insecurity way down into the deep roads of her own consciousness, and got out of bed.

 

* * *

 

Outside, before they left Redcliffe Castle, Alistair delivered the speech he had mentioned, rallying the troops to march on Denerim. Esme stood watching, thinking he looked every bit the confident king, and was actually feeling like this all might work out, in the end, when she sensed Morrigan at her shoulder.

“Tis a rousing speech,” she said. “Did you write it for him?”

“No,” Esme said, not turning to look at her. She had known Morrigan was there without seeing her, for she could smell that familiar herbal odor of elfroot and blood lotus that clung to her… friend? Yes. She supposed they still were friends.

“Hmm,” Morrigan said, “I suppose he would not have been able to memorize it if you had. Well, regardless, it certainly makes me want to march into glorious battle.” She snickered. “And is that Cailan's armor? He actually looks like a King in this light; you must be very proud.”

Esme turned slowly and gave her a stoic stare to rival Sten’s impassive yet imperious gaze.

She was met with that sly, quiet Morrigan smile.

“I’m clearly not as pleased with myself as you are.”

“I have reason to be pleased, my dear friend. The culmination of all we’ve worked to achieve is upon us. The armies we recruited are assembling and the old god awaits.” She stepped up right beside Esme and put one slender arm around her back. “You have nothing to fear from Urthemiel’s soul, and will I’ve no doubt deal the killing blow without hesitation, though I wouldn’t fault you for letting Alistair take all the glory, for once.” She planted a kiss on Esme’s cheek.

“Esmeralda,” said Alistair, jogging down the wooden steps of the platform and striding towards them. “Come, you need to ride beside me at the head of the army.”

He stopped and looked at Morrigan.

She stepped away from Esme and made an exaggerated, mocking curtsey. “Good morning, my King.”

“Good morning, Mage. Ready to get all doused in dragon blood?”

“I don’t need to get covered in the archdemon’s blood for this to work.”

“Well, best to see if you can manage it anyway to be on the safe side,” he said, with a cheerful viciousness, and then held out his hand to Esme. “Shall we, dear one?”

She took his proffered hand and let him lead her up to where two Ferelden forders stood waiting. She spared one glance over her shoulder for Morrigan, but the mage had already turned and was striding away from them to join the others.

 

* * *

 

They never really talked about that night again. Not even when Esme had left to find Morrigan, though it was as close as they ever came to talking about anything other than the result.

Soon after the Battle of Denerim, Alistair said, “I suppose it actually worked. And she really is gone?”

“Yes.”

Alistair and Morrigan had both been standing right there at the tower, only a few yards away from the dragon as it died. The blast of its soul leaving its body had knocked them back like a shockwave, and when Esme had climbed down from the demon’s corpse; only Alistair remained.

Somehow she had thought that Morrigan would at least stay for a day or two before leaving, but she was in the wind as soon as the dragon fell. Quite literally, Esme’s expected, as she had probably transformed into a bird and flown away in order to disappear so quickly from such a dangerous landscape.

Later, Alistair told Esme that the Orlesian Wardens had sent word that they were finally coming, a day late and a sovereign short, now that Loghain, who had barred them entry into Ferelden, was no longer in power. They were already asking questions about how the archdemon had been slain without Esme or Alistair dying.

Riordan had perished much earlier in the battle, so there was no lying and saying that he had absorbed the dragon’s soul. Esme suggested that they just say the belief that a Grey Warden had to die was wrong, a mistaken assumption, and Alistair said with an acerbic chuckle, “Oh, yes, all you need to do is get a maleficar to have your demon baby and everything’s fiiiine. No, no… I think I’ll just shrug and look stupid… I’m good at that. Leave the Orlesians to me.”


	5. Dreams

* * *

_9:42 Dragon_

* * *

 

The bell with the deepest voice was tolling in the Chantry, each low tone spread out, several heartbeats spanning silence in between. Every beat reached every street, in every district, _gong… gong… gong…_

The people in the streets seemed to glide to and fro about their business, feet never touching the ground. She was the only person who had feet to walk on. The others did not looked at her as she went, every few steps punctuated by the bell. The cobblestones shuddered with each sound.

She entered the throne room of the royal palace.

Alistair and Morrigan were there, standing at the base of the steps leading up to the throne, staring up at it. They were each on opposite sides of the long red carpet which crawled up the steps like a river.

They turned their heads to her in unison.

“No hello?” Esme said, walking towards them. It seemed to take forever. A year. A lifetime.

“No hello,” echoed Alistair.

Morrigan said nothing. The bell spoke for her, a distant _gong… gong… gong…_

On the throne above them was a boy, he looked to her like a Qunari boy, with high curling horns and slightly metallic skin, a dark lavender shade. His eyes were strange, dark and shimmering, as if distant nebulae lay within. His ears were long and pointed like an elf’s.

She stopped before the throne.

“Is this him?” she asked. “He doesn’t look like you.”

“He doesn’t look like you,” said Alistair.

Morrigan finally spoke, but it was not an answer. “We thought you were never coming home.”

“We? Is it ‘we’?” Esme said, feeling a tinge of jealousy. Of regret. _Gong… gong… gong…_

She climbed the steps. Alistair and Morrigan’s eyes tracked her, hawkishly. But they were silent.

The boy on the throne was the only one not looking at her. His head was tilted back. He stared at something above, and she looked up.

She saw nothing but darkness, as if they were buried far below the earth. Far below the shuddering cobblestones, _gong… gong… gong…_

When she looked down again, he was watching her.

He got up, and as he left his seat, he crawled to her on four legs, circling her, his tail dragging along the carpet.

She turned in a circle, her gaze locked with his.

Had there ever been a boy? Or had it been the dragon all along?

The throne room was gone.

They stood atop the Tower at Fort Drakon, facing each other, all alone. The sky above was red with long dead fire and the bells were all gone silent.

"Urthemiel,” she said.

“Esmeralda,” the dragon hissed, its long, reptile tongue flickering behind its teeth as it tasted the syllables of her name.

Something was wrong. Something had been wrong for a very long time. She couldn’t quite figure it out, but it itched at her mind.

“You… you are…”

“Yes?”

“Beautiful,” she said, surprised as the word left her mouth.

“Thank you,” he said, tossing his head a little, stroking his feathered mane with one gleaming claw. _Preening._

The dragon _was_ beautiful. He had scales of shimmering, deep purple iridescence and his mane of feathers was a dark, rich indigo. He had long, twisting horns that spiraled up from his head like halla’s, but far more beautiful, breathtaking, _godly._ His horns were a grand crown. When he unfurled his wings, the leathery undersides were tinged a deep maroon. She reached out to touch the shimmering amethyst scales on his chest, but then drew back instinctively. Such beauty could not be _touched_ by a mere mortal hand.

When she looked upon Urthemiel, she felt as if she were looking upon the stars in the heavens. Those stars whispered to her. They sang. They were her mother’s voice humming a lullaby, Leliana singing, so sweetly, and yet those stars sang more beautifully than any human voice she had ever heard. They sang to break her heart.

Such a creature should not be touched. It should be worshiped.

But still, something far in the back of her mind was scratching, clawing towards realization. She shook her head, as if dislodging rocks from her mind. The dragon paced, watching her, waiting.

“This isn’t right,” she muttered. “I… we… you… I killed you. Y-yes. I _killed_ you.”

She took several steps back, eyeing the beautiful creature with new distrust. She remembered taking her sword and running up to the dragon, which had been hideous and terrible, a desiccated corpse-wyrm. Its violet blood had showered over her as she dragged her sword through its belly and drove its point deep into the dragon’s skull.

Here they stood in the spot of her greatest triumph, the moment her life had been leading her to since birth. The moment she did not know how to live beyond.

She looked around, noticing that Fort Drakon was deserted, no hordes of darkspawn, no circle mages, dwarven brawlers, or Dalish archers, and no companions. Alistair and Morrigan and her hound had been there, all of them fighting beside her. But where had they gone?

When she searched, she began to doubt that she was even standing atop Fort Drakon at all. A panic began to rise inside her.

“You have freed me,” said Urthemiel. “I owe you deep thanks. I owe you a great debt.”

She shook her head again. That did not seem right. “Where am I?”

“Have you not guessed it yet?”

“I have been here before,” she murmured, turning to and fro, clenching her fists as a terrible fear crept into her heart. She didn’t want to say it, as if speaking her suspicions might make it impossible to be untrue. She had been in the Fade before, she had escaped a powerful Sloth demon, had recognized the falseness of that dreamworld instantly. The idea that she could not recognize the lie now shook her to her core.

She was trapped.

“You are sleeping,” he said, drawing near to her. “Dreaming.” She felt his breath against her skin, like a ghost passing by. “And all you need to do… is wake up.”

“Then I wake up,” she said. “I wake up. I wake—”

“Wait.”

She was frozen. Urthemiel swung his head around on his long, sinewy neck, and stared her straight in the eyes. “I owe you a debt. I am about to pay it.”

She had no choice but to wait.

“The answers you seek lie not in the far west, or the north, or any distant lands. The answer lies close to home. Close to your heart.”

She frowned at the cryptic words.

“If you truly wanted to repay me,” she said. “You would speak more plainly.”

The dragon chuckled at that. Even his laugh was enchanting. His laugh was like a happy song, the stars twinkling, a dog barking, a lilting tavern tune. Celebration bells.

“The secret you search for lies in the blood of the great dragons,” Urthemiel said. “That is plain as day. Now goodbye, demon-slayer. Perhaps we will meet again, but I think we will not.”

Then, he turned from her and ran lightly across the ground, spreading his wings, and took off with an enormous downgust of wind. She watched him fly away, transfixed, a thrall to his great and terrible beauty.

Then she wandered alone across the the eeries landscape of the Fade, which, now that her eyes were opened, was so unlike Fort Drakon or Denerim or any other human place that she felt ashamed to have been fooled.

“Wake up,” she said, “wake up. Wake up, wakeupwakeupwakeup…” She beat her head with her hands but felt no pain to jolt her up, and even the rising panic could not free her from that place.

The stars did not sing to her anymore. They laughed, ugly laughter, derisive, mocking howls. The bells were silenced, the Chant of Light could not reach her here.

She stumbled and fell to her knees, and for a moment felt despair. There were no demons to defeat, no puzzles to unlock, nothing but the vast empty loneliness of her own private nightmare.

But just as all seemed hopeless, she heard a new and distant sound. Faint, at first, but then closer. Louder. It was the sound of sharp, urgent barking.

She got up and staggered towards that sound. It cut through the fog and the darkness.

And suddenly, she was lying on the ground beside the embers of a dead campfire, her bones stiff and muscles cramping. Everything around her was harsh and bright and cold, the way the real world always felt when shaken out of the Fade and ripped from dreams.

Esme sat up and saw the mangled bodies of several giant spiders scattered around her. A few yards away, Ser Bumperton, coated in blood, was snarling and snapping his jaws at two other spiders.

Esme hauled herself to her feet and took up her sword, running towards her dog. With a few instinctive, vicious slashes, she cut through both spiders and they fell dead, twitching and convulsing and spitting last sprays of poison. Her sword glinted in the morning sunlight as it arched through the air and hovered for a moment, pointed at the sky, before she lowered it again.

Esme stood breathing heavily as Ser Bumperton shook himself and yipped happily, sounding like a delirious puppy rather than a mature hound of eleven years. He jumped around and flung himself at her feet.

“Good boy,” she said, dropping her sword with a sigh. It clattered to the stones. She reached out and ran her hands over her hound, who wriggled in approval. Ser Bumperton seemed healthy; the blood coating him was the spiders’, not his own.

Judging by her stiff and sore body, she had been dreaming by the campfire for far too long. The sun was up, it was nearly mid day. She couldn’t remember much of the dream now, just that Urthemiel had been there, but that he had not looked as she remembered him.

Oh… and yes, she remembered how she had dreamt of Morrigan and Alistair standing together with their son.

In retrospect, that should have been her first clue that she was in the Fade and none of this was real.

That, and the fact that the boy had looked more like Sten’s bastard than Alistair’s.

She must be slipping, she thought, as she wiped off her sword. Ten years ago she had been proud of herself for immediately shrugging off the Sloth demon’s attempts to ensnare her in a dream. Young Esme had been so proud of many things, even as she struggled with her insecurities and the weight of her responsibilities.

Funny how getting older made the pride and the quick thinking go away until all that remained was the anxiety and self doubt. At least she could still swing a sword.

Even as she tried to shake off the dream with self-chiding, petting her hound, and cleaning up her camp, the memory of Urthemiel remained. She knew her Grey Warden history, and so knew that the Tevinters had worshiped him as the God of Beauty, but she had not really understood that back during the Blight.

In her Blight dreams, when the archdemon still lived, Urthemiel had always been a hideous monster driving the darkspawn forward.

Perhaps that was what Urthemiel had meant when he said she had freed him. By killing the twisted demonic mockery of the Old God, she had set him free.

If so, it must after all be true; Morrigan’s son carried the soul of the Old God inside him.

She had known that’s what was supposed to happen, but had never had any real proof, besides the fact that she wasn’t dead, and that Morrigan had a son. There was still a part of her that had wondered if her survival really did have anything to do with the ritual, with the child, or if it was a coincidence. Part of her always wondered if Morrigan was telling the truth.

The dream seemed absurd once remembered, except that it didn’t. She could not shake the memory of the dragon’s mesmerizing voice, or his words. He told her that the answer to her quest lay at home, which easily could have been her own homesickness speaking. But of all the Fade lies she could dismiss, she had a hard time convincing herself that Urthemiel had been a figment of her own imagination.

Still… home is the one place she had promised herself she would not go until she had answers. How could she, after three long years, just show up on Alistair’s doorstep and say that Urthemiel had appeared to her in a dream and told her to go back and see if she could find the cure to the Calling hidden in the ballroom drapes? The kitchen larder? The family crypt?

 _Close to your heart… the blood of the great dragons…_ it seemed less cryptic, now. A bit too obvious, in fact. Go home to your husband, who just happens to be the last of the Theirin kings, fabled to have the blood of the ancient great dragons.

The only problem was, of course, that Alistair had the taint. That Theirin blood had not prevented him from undergoing the Joining and coming out a Grey Warden. He needed the Cure just like the rest of them, so clearly his blood could not hold any answers. Even if it did, she could just hear him now, ranting about _no more blood magic and especially not anything more to do with my blood._

Perhaps the dragon had meant that she needed to find an actual, real life Great Dragon. But that was impossible. There were dragons and high dragons roaming about, but no great dragons. The great dragons were just rumors, stories of old times. Unlike darkspawn and archdemons, no great dragons had been seen in thousands of years, if they had every truly existed at all.

It occurred to her that “home” could mean anywhere in Ferelden. It could mean Highever. And what was truly close to her heart? Sometimes she doubted she had a heart left.

But she knew her that if her conversation with Urthemiel had been real, it was because his soul had been freed upon his death, and she knew where that soul had gone. She could, possibly, speak to Urthemiel again and try to get more concrete answers from him.

The idea took root in her mind, even though she told herself, no. Morrigan would be furious if she arrived in Skyhold asking to speak to the old god which hid within a boy. Hadn’t her old friend forbidden her from seeing the boy several times over? Before he was even conceived Morrigan had been swearing they would never see him.

But that hadn’t stopped her from bringing him to the Orlesian court and then to the Inquisition stronghold. A stronghold to which Esme had been invited. Yes, she had already sent the messenger off with the letter declining that invitation, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t change her mind. They would still welcome her with open arms.

And all she wanted to do was talk to the boy. Morrigan couldn’t deny her that much, surely. After all, she wasn’t the one invading his dreams.

As soon as she became resolved, a great excitement overtook her. She felt light. Home! She would take a boat to the stormcoast, she would stop to see Fergus on her way south to Skyhold. And then… and then...

Unconsciously, she touched the locket she wore on a chain around her neck, under her clothes and her armor, tucked between her breasts, close to the heart she did not have. It left an imprint, the etching of the Theirin crest on the metal surface marked on her skin.

Inside were two portraits that had been painted ten years ago, to celebrate the occasion of the royal wedding. On one side was a likeness of herself, and on the other was Alistair.

She thought the painter hadn’t gotten her right, had never liked her portrait, because she thought she’d been made to look too soft and pretty. Pearls and small white flowers in her hair and a satin dress. Of course she had worn a dress for her own wedding, she wasn’t so uncouth as to show up in dragonbone plate. (Her mother would have come back to life just to die again). But she did not know how she felt about that being her official portrait, with the original being hung prominently in the palace at Denerim and reproductions being shipping off all around Ferelden so that every noble family could have Her Royal Highness, the Princess-Consort, hanging on their wall. She really did think that a nice set of ceremonial armor would give the people a better, more recognizable representation of her.

But that didn’t really matter. She didn’t keep a locket with her own portrait in it out of vanity. She kept it because of Alistair. The painter had done a good job capturing Alistair’s likeness, she had thought. When she camped or stayed at an inn, she would take out the locket and look at it. Sometimes she would stare, broodingly, for hours, at the both of them, wondering why her husband seemed so real and vibrant in his portrait and she looked so… fake.

More times than she cared to admit, she would talk to his picture. Ser Bumpteron would cock his head and look at her as if he worried for her sanity. In this case it was much better to talk to one’s dog as if it were human.

Now, as she pulled the locket out again, she knew that if she went home to Denerim, she might truly never leave. Even if she had no answers. Even if nothing changed; if nothing had been gained by her long search.

And that scared her.

What if the Calling came and she did not have the courage to answer it? They said that Wardens who tried to overstay their welcome once the blight sickness began to overtake them turned into ghouls and had to be put down. Now that would make a portrait worth remembering. The Ghoul Queen. _That_ would erase the Hero of Ferelden from the collective memory, alright.

No, she could not die in Denerim, not unless she slit her wrists or begged someone else to give her a quick end. Grey Wardens didn’t go like that. They went heroically, taking as many darkspawn as they could with them. Or at least, that’s what the stories of the Calling said. Since most all Grey Wardens took the journey alone, who was to say what actually happened in the deep roads? Maybe some remained there, becoming ghouls, too afraid to truly die.

That was defeat.

Defeat scared her.


	6. Allies

* * *

  _9:42 Dragon_

* * *

 

When she rode through the gates of Skyhold, a light, sleeting snow was falling. Her horse’s hooves splashed through a puddle in the courtyard, and mud splattered her boots when she jumped down from her saddle. Ser Bumperton ran off towards a stand which was stocked with fresh food, and she let him go terrorize the merchant to his heart’s content. He had been a good dog for so long, he deserved a bit of mischief.

The mountain fortress was most impressive. Not just its size, but the liveliness behind its walls. She gazed around at the motley collection of people as she followed a guard up the stone steps towards the Keep. Soldiers sparred noisily in the yard and merchants traded wares. There was a tavern inside the walls, and she could hear faint strains of music and laughter from within. It was like a small village.

Inside, she was met by a trio of the Inquisition’s leaders, but not the famous Qunari herself.

Esme hardly thought about that, though, as Leliana came trotting towards her and threw her arms around her neck.

There were shocked murmurings from those gathered in the hall, as if seeing Leliana so expressive surprised them. “I had given up all hope of seeing you again,” Leliana said, releasing her and stepping back. “I am so glad you finally came.”

“Yes, well, late to the party it seems,” Esme said. “I hear that Corypheus is defeated and all is well.”

“Oh, you know, all is never _all well,”_ said Leliana, taking her by the arm and walking her towards her companions. “There is so much to be done, so many people to help, especially since there is so much rebuilding necessary. The hinterlands are still in disarray, and the—oh, we can talk about all that later. Please, let me present to you Josephine Montilyet, our head of diplomacy.”

An elegant Antivan woman dressed in shimmering gold and blue finery stepped forward and offer Esme a hand. “Your majesty,” she said, respectfully curtsying. Esme smiled graciously. The woman reminded her of Oriana.

“And this is the Commander of the Inquisition forces. Cullen Rutherford.”

“Really?” she said bluntly, earning looks of discomfort and surprise. “Him?”

Leliana laughed. “So you remember Cullen.” To Lady Montilyet she said, “We crossed paths with Cullen during the Blight, of course,” but turning back to Esme. “I was not sure you would recognize him.”

 _I never forget a complete and total git,_ Esme thought, and out loud she said, “Well, we once had an argument about whether an entire tower full of mages, including children, should be murdered, so I think it’s fair to say he made a lasting impression.”

Rutherford, who looked pained to be standing there at all, much less being discussed as if he wasn’t, said, “That was a… difficult time in my life. I apologize, Warden-Commander, for any… unpleasant… things I may have said when we first met.”

“I am not a Warden-Commander any longer,” she corrected, then pointedly turned from him to address the others. “Leliana, correct me if I am mistaken, but had I not heard that this man murdered several innocent apprentice mages in a fit of madness and was cast out of the Templar order? Imagine my surprise to find him here and in such a high position, to boot.”

“Er… the, um, Inquisition is a… place… where many have found opportunities to atone for past mistakes.” Leliana seemed at a genuine loss for what to say, all her faculties fleeing her in the moment. Whatever she had expected from Esme, it clearly wasn’t for her to start right in on accusations.

“How was the road from Highever, Your Highness?” Josephine said quickly. “Very long and tiring I imagine. We have prepared a room for you, if you would like me to have someone show you the way?”

“I’m sorry,” Esme said. “Forgive my abruptness. You’re right, I am very tired from being on the road so long.”

“I’ll be in my tower if you need me,” said Rutherford, and bowed slightly to Esme. “Your Highness. Welcome to Skyhold.”

She gave him a curt nod in response. It had been a long time since she had had any cause or opportunity to use an imperious, queenly manner to intimidate someone, and she couldn’t deny that she found some vindictive satisfaction in watching Rutherford scurry away.

She turned back to Josephine and Leliana. “Is Inquisitor Adaar here?” she asked. She wanted to ask where Morrigan was, but she hadn’t forgotten all of her diplomacy, just yet.

“No,” Leliana said. “Regretfully, the Inquisitor is currently south, in the Basin. She left on an expedition to recover some relics, and there has since been unrest in the area, with the avvar tribes. We’ve gotten word not to expect her back until the crisis with the hostile avvar faction is resolved. It is a shame, as I know she very much would like to meet you.”

Esme nodded. “And I her. Some other day, though. And Morrigan? Is she with her?”

Leliana shook her head. “Oh, no. Morrigan has not stayed with us. You know how she is. As soon as Corypheus was defeated, she took her leave, along with her son.”

“Do you know where she went?”

“Ummmm, I’m not sure,” Leliana said, so cagily that Esme knew she was keeping something from her. But she didn’t press the matter. Not just yet anyhow.

She allowed herself to unwind and take advantage of Skyhold’s hospitality, indulging in a hot bath and meal which was brought to her room. It was Lady Montilyet’s hasty arrangements which made sure she was made comfortable, treated as near to a queen as Skyhold’s resources could manage. Esme had not lived like the princess or noblewoman she was for three years now, and would have told them not to fuss over her, except that it felt quite nice to be fussed over again.

She regretted that she had behaved so churlishly, in retrospect. Not that she cared about Rutherford, but she was aware that here in this stronghold she had to remember who she was, for she was not anonymous anymore. Now that she was back in Ferelden where everyone recognized her face, she represented the Crown. Lady Montilyet, a refined Antivan noblewoman, no doubt was appalled at the lack of manners exhibited by the uncouth Ferelden consort.

She resolved to do better tomorrow, to prove that she could summon Eleanor Cousland’s charming daughter from underneath the grime of the road, but in the meantime, she went to sleep with Ser Bumperton draped across her feet. Being uncouth enough to sleep with one’s dog was a time honored Ferelden tradition.

The next morning, she found her way up to Leliana’s rookery. Leliana cleared out all of the people who had been milling about when Esme climbed the steps. When they were alone they sat and talked about the old days, reminiscing about their adventures during the Fifth Blight. Leliana told her more about the Inquisition’s fight against Corypheus. She served her dark, hot tea, flavored with Orlesian spices.

It was good. She hadn’t realized how much she missed Leliana, whose long stories around the campfire had passed many an evening. Leliana seemed completely at ease and in her element here, as spymaster, and Esme was glad for her. Ten years ago, Leliana had been at a sort of crossroads, unsure whether to devote her life to the Chantry or embrace her darker side as a bard, a thief and an assassin. Spymaster for an offshoot of the Chantry seemed like an ideal fit.

It was good to know that one of her close friends was making a successful life after the Blight. She told Leliana as much, and Leliana chuckled.

“You speak as if you envy me, but I think you are doing quite well for yourself,” she said, and Esme knew that she was probing for information. They had not really discussed why she had disappeared for so long, and why she had finally decided to come back.

She was hesitant to speak to the Spymaster of the Inquisition about her personal doubts and struggles, even if that Spymaster were a dear and trusted old friend. So she chose her words carefully as she said, “Indeed. Things turned out far better than I ever imagined they would, when we were hunted by Loghain’s men and struggling to gather allies.”

“Oh yes. Power does not come without its own dangers, of course. But with allies, there are few threats that cannot be dealt with.” Leliana nodded, twirling on finger around her auburn hair, a gesture she had not grown out of in ten years. “I was quite happy to be able to help Alistair out with his little Venatori assassin problem.”

Esme choked on her tea. “His what now?” she asked, wiping at the dribble on her chin.

“Oh, yes… a few months ago the kitchen staff in Denerim was taken over by Venatori spies who were planning on poisoning the King,” Leliana said, with a casual little wave of her hand, as she were not talking about Esme’s husband. “I was able to help thwart this. To be honest, I was just glad that Alistair reached out to us for help with uncovering the plot, since we had all been worried that the Crown wouldn’t take kindly to the Inquisition’s presence here.”

Leliana stood up. “Here, I have some letters about the whole matter…” She went to a chest and rooted around in a collection of scrolls for a moment before pulling out a handful which were bound together with twine. Returning to the table, she said, “Ah yes, and after that, we were asked to assist in peace talks between Ferelden and Orlais. Josephine handled that, so she could tell you more about it. But I’m sure Alistair will tell you everything when you return to Denerim. I’m just glad we could be of service.”

Esme saw what was going on, here. She took the proffered scrolls and glanced over the letters Alistair had written to the Inquisition and the missives between Leliana and her agents regarding the Venatori. Leliana, and the other Inquisition leaders, were clearly nervous about their standing with the Ferelden government, and wanted very badly to impress upon the Crown what good allies they were.

On the surface, it certainly seemed to be working with Alistair, who wrote to the Inquisitor in a casual and friendly tone, expressing gratitude to the Inquisition for their help with the problem in his kitchens. But who knew what he was really thinking, at such a distance. His letters were odd, scattered, jokingly self-effacing and impolitic. They read like something he would have dashed off when he was twenty and had just taken the throne, relying on Esme or Eamon to proofread all his outgoing correspondence. She knew that he knew better, by now… and that he usually was only so deliberately stupid sounding about matters of governance with people he _wanted_ to underestimate him.

Contrary to popular belief, he could write his own letters, and the pointed mentions of some unruly trickster scribe who was recording his asides sounded more like a way to lure the Inquisition into complacency than a genuine inability to control what went out in his letters.

Esme raised her eyebrows as she scanned the correspondence, wondering if Alistair _really_ thought he was fooling Leliana, of all people. Did he forget that she knew him well? Not as well as Esme perhaps, but Leliana could obviously tell when Alistair was doing his “oh I’m just a stupid bastard who doesn’t know how to be king” routine. The only question was why he was doing it.

Esme sighed, tossing the letters onto the table. “Leliana… I know what you want.”

“Hmmm?” Leliana said, stirring her tea innocently.

“I didn’t come here to help the Inquisition negotiate with Alistair.”

“Of course not.”

“Clearly you have cultivated a very good relationship with the Crown, on your own,” she added, unable to resist using a little sarcasm.

“Of course,” Leliana repeated, dryly this time. She picked up one of the letters and quoted directly from it: “Something something grateful something.”

Esme shrugged, sipping her tea.

“He may not be taking us seriously, but I think that you should,” Leliana said. “Now that Corypheus is defeated, we are at a crossroads, you know. We must determine what will happen to the Inquisition now that’s its original purpose has been fulfilled.”

Esme was surprised she was speaking so frankly about her concerns for the organization. As if sensing this, Leliana reached out and took her hand. “I tell you this,” she said, her eyes shining in that way Esme remembered well from the early days of the Blight, when Leliana spoke of visions from the Maker, “because I truly believe we have built something wonderful here, and I wouldn’t not see us disband when Thedas still needs us. We are like the Grey Wardens, you know, but different… better, I think. We stand between Thedas and threats from beyond the Veil.”

“I cannot argue with that,” Esme said. “But you are aware that as a military power which answers to no country, you will inevitably cause worry for both Orlais and Ferelden.”

“Yes, highly aware. That is why we have worked to foster good relations with both Orlais and Ferelden.”

“Naturally.”

“One of our own, Cassandra Pentaghast, has been elected to be the new Divine,” Leliana said. “And so we are assured to be in good standing with the Chantry. For a time, Morrigan served as Imperial Liaison, which was good for our relations with Empress Celene. But we have no such ties to Alistair.”

“Don’t sell yourself short. You were friends with Alistair… back during the Blight. I mean, he always liked you. He thought you were a bit eccentric… but he liked you.”

Leliana scoffed, and got up to feed some crumbs to one of her birds. “That hardly counts as a valuable political connection, especially not ten years later.”

“Leliana… it sounds suspiciously to me like you _are_ trying to talk me into helping to negotiate between the Inquisition and the Crown. And I have to tell you, it’s a bad idea. For one, I’ve been away for too long. Secondly, I am not so sure about your Inquisition myself. I mean… Cullen Rutherford? You really couldn’t find a better commander?”

“Please, Esme,” Leliana said, seeming to get her back up about that. “Cullen has been working tirelessly with us to save the world from Corypheus while you were Maker-knows-where doing Maker-knows-what, so I hardly think you should be criticizing.”

Esme sat back, a little amused with Leliana for dropping her politeness. “Fair enough,” she said. “You’re right, I have been absent in a time of great need. To everyone’s constant lamenting, I’m sure. I hope what Rutherford did for your Inquisition atones for the innocent mages he killed at the Circle… call me a hypocrite if you like, for disliking him no matter what.”

Leliana sat back down. “I am sorry. I only… I believe in this Inquisition, you see. I truly believe we are a force for good in Thedas. I wish everyone could see it. You are not alone in being suspicious and untrusting of our motivations. But surely you remember what it was like, back then, when if felt like we were alone against the Blight, but everyone doubted our motivations. When being a Grey Warden earned you nothing but resentment and accusations of being a traitor. When people like Loghain were more concerned with their own political ambition than the darkspawn threat. It has been like that for the Inquisition, and we have overcome all of it to become a true force to be reckoned with.”

“Should I tell Alistair that for you? Using those exact words?” Esme asked.

Leliana waved her hand. “Oh, don’t even dare tease me. You know what I mean.”

“Well yes, but you do remember that after the Blight, Alistair and I ended up on the throne… well, Alistair on the throne, with me standing beside him, and everyone whispering about how I was his puppet master. People who defeat archdemons and ancient magisters tend to rise to power during a crisis, and it makes those who are already in power nervous.”

“He is not the same without you, you know,” Leliana pointed out. “I can tell. He misses you. We all do. Ferelden does not only misses their Hero, but their Queen.”

“I’m not the Queen.”

“Oh, you could be. Alistair would make it official, if you truly wanted him to. I think he would do anything you asked, just to keep you from running away again.”

Esme lifted a warning finger. “First of all, I did not run away. Second… you’re assuming too much. Has Alistair been writing you personal letters, lamenting my absence? I doubt it.”

Leliana smiled quietly, an alarmingly smug smile, and got up. Esme watched her go over to a chink in the wall and pull out a loose stone, then extract a small silver box, which she unlocked with a keychain that she carried around her wrist. Clearly, this was her stash of super secret letters, and Esme got nervous.

Leliana, still looking immensely pleased with herself, handed Esme a small folded piece of paper. It was not an official missive written in a scribe’s hand and stamped with the royal seal, but an unmarked note. When she unfolded it she saw Alistair’s own handwriting.

> _Leliana,_
> 
> _No, I don’t know where she is. Don’t ask me again. At this point you and your inquisition friends have a better chance of finding her and convincing her to come back, than I do. You lot seem to be good at the impossible. If you do find her, tell her not to forget about her devoted dog, will you? And I don’t mean Ser Bump. You should burn this letter, but I know you won’t. I’m cross with you about that already._
> 
> _Yours &c, _
> 
> _A fool_

Esme sighed and folded the note back up. “I am not as heartless as he makes me sound,” she said.

“Why _did_ you leave?” Leliana asked.

“I told you. I was searching for a cure to the Grey Warden’s taint. A cure for the Calling.”

“Yes, but…”

“Doesn’t what happened to the Grey Wardens in Orlais show you how important it is? The very thing that makes us Wardens can be manipulated until we act more like darkspawn. Even without someone like Corypheus… we all succumb to the Blight sickness in the end. The Calling is nothing more glorious than the ritual suicide at Adamant. It may seem noble to someone who doesn’t have to go through it, but we become ghouls, thralls of the dragon’s song… and the only way to avoid such an ignoble end is to commit suicide by darkspawn, all alone, in the deep roads.” Esme took a breath, realizing that she was starting to rant.

“I guess I am a coward, but I don’t want that fate. I want to get rid of this taint. I want it to be possible for others to be rid of it, as well.”

“You’re not a coward,” said Leliana. “I don’t want that fate for you, either. And Adamant proved that it is dangerous, as well.”

“The Joining is blood magic,” Esme said, bluntly. “Grey Wardens have not always shied away from blood magic, because our entire existence as an order is built upon a blood magic ritual.”

“I understand. I am sorry for doubting the worth of you quest, Esme. As for Alistair, well, he always did like to pout. I would not worry about it.” But despite such reassuring words, her fond smile faded a little, as she asked, “Do you… did he… I have been meaning to ask…”

“What?”

“Corypheus’s false Calling. You said in your letter that you did not hear it. Did Alistair?”

“I don’t know.”

“It is worrisome that the ruler of Ferelden is susceptible to that sort of manipulation.”

Esme suddenly remembered that she was talking to the Inquisition’s Spymaster, and not simply her old friend and confidant. Ten years ago, before the Landsmeet, she had never hesitated to gossip with Leliana about her relationship, but now things were different. Alistair was the King. A King and a Grey Warden, in a time when Grey Wardens had betrayed their purpose and put the world in jeopardy rather than saving it.

She straightened up in her chair, changing her demeanor entirely from one of trust to a distant, queenly chill. “I am sure that Alistair was never compromised,” she said, icily.

“Of course.”

Esme stood up. “Thank you for the tea, Leliana.”

Leliana stepped forward. “I didn’t mean anything by that,” she said, worrying her hands together. “I simply meant… I understand how important your mission was. Is.”

“Yes, of course, don’t worry at all,” Esme said. She couldn’t quite bring herself to sound sincere, though. “But I have things to attend to. Lady Montilyet requested that I meet with her, and I must find Dagna, as I promised her last night that I would tour her workshop, and… well, you know. On and on. Everyone wants a piece of the Hero.” She laughed unconvincingly.

Leliana followed her towards the stairs, and said, “Have you spoken to Grand Enchanter Fiona yet?”

Esme paused. “I did, a few years ago. Why?”

“Well, she’s the only former Grey Warden I know of who no longer carries the taint. I thought she might be helpful in your quest.”

“Yes, I did know that about her. As I said, I spoke to her a few years ago. She was one of the first leads I followed, but that was back when she was with the Circle. Before the rebellion. She has been quite busy, I hear. And she’s not the Grand Enchanter anymore.”

“No, she isn’t. Well, it was a thought.”

“I will probably speak with her again, since she’s here. Thank you for reminding me, Leliana.”

Leliana nodded. “Anything I can do to help you, or Alistair. Do not hesitate to ask.”

“The Inquisition only wishes to help,” Esme said, smiling. “I know.”

“Don’t think of it as the Inquisition helping, if you object to that. We are still friends, yes? A family, even.”

_My Blight family…. But the Blight is over…_

She just smiled, sadly. “Yes, you were like a sister to me. So was Morrigan.”

Leliana’s face shifted, imperceptibly, and Esme remembered her cagey attitude about Morrigan the night before.

“You do know where Morrigan went,” she said. “Why are you not telling me? Did she swear you to secrecy?”

“No. It’s just, I’m not completely sure she went where I think she did. I haven’t heard any news of her since she left, right after Corypheus’s defeat.”

“Where do you think she might have gone?” Esme pressed. “I don’t mind speculation. I’ve been running on less than that for three years.”

Leliana cocked her head to the side, twirling the ends of her hair. “But what do you want with Morrigan? Do you think she has answers about the cure? I think she would have volunteered them, if she did.”

“No. Well… perhaps. I need to speak with her about it, anyway.”

Leliana nodded, sighing a little, as if resigning herself to having to give Esme unpleasant news. “I believe she may have gone to Denerim.”

Esme laughed. “No.”

It was the absolute last place in Thedas Morrigan would go. At least not as long as Alistair was King there.

“I told you, I don’t know for sure. But I have reason to think it’s very likely she went there,” Leliana said, a tad defensively.

“What reason? And why wouldn’t she go back to Orlais? She was the Imperial Liaison, after all.”

“I don’t think Morrigan likes to stay in one place for too long,” Leliana said. “I do not think she went back to Orlais. I do know that the King sent her an invitation, to come to Denerim.”

“Now I _know_ you’re mistaken. Alistair would never do that.”

“Why not? Morrigan served under the Empress of Orlais and the Inquisition… she helped defeat Corypheus. She knows a lot of valuable information. If I were the King of Ferelden, I would extend an invitation.”

“But you’re not the King of Ferelden. Alistair is. He and Morrigan don’t work well together.”

“Well enough to… well I’m sure I don’t have to tell you.”

“Ugh. Leliana. I hope you are not implying what I think you are implying.”

“I did not think you would appreciate me speaking openly about it.”

“Yes, well, I don’t even like your hinting at it.” Esme looked around pointedly. They were alone in the rookery, but life at court had taught her to always suspect that the walls had eyes and ears.

“Very well, I will not, then. But I have answered your question, so…” Leliana ended with a shrug.

“Did Morrigan tell you that she had an invitation to go to Denerim?”

“Not in so many words, but I understood her meaning.”

“What did she say, specifically?”

“That perhaps the time had come to entertain notions she had once rejected.”

“That’s incredibly vague and could be referring to anything at all.”

“Many things happened while she was here, Esme. Things which shook Morrigan to her core. She behaved in ways I have never seen her do before.”

“You mean besides the fact that she turned into a dragon?”

Leliana rolled her eyes, unappreciative of Esme’s deadpan snark. “Yes. Other ways.”

“What ways?”

“Her son disappeared through an eluvian. I have never seen her so distraught, so unguarded and emotional. She loves that boy, you know, she would do anything for him. Anything to keep him safe. I never would have thought Morrigan could care so much about another person.”

“She’s his mother, that’s not so strange.”

“Perhaps not. At any rate, she and Inquisitor Adaar went in after him, and when they came out, things were very different.”

“Things?”

“They were different. Morrigan and Kieran. Something happened in there, she wouldn’t tell me what. The Inquisitor wouldn’t even say.”

“You’re her spymaster and yet she keeps things from you?”

“When she respects the secrets of others, yes,” said Leliana, holding her head high.

“I see.”

“There are things I know which I do not tell her, for the same reason. There are some secrets I keep, even though secrets are my business. Family is more important than business, in the end.”

“I understand.”

“Do you?” she said, doubt clouding the blue of her eyes. “When you helped me with Marjolaine, I thought we understood each other perfectly. Subterfuge is one thing. Betrayal is another.”

Esme paused for a moment, thinking how best to respond. She just reached out and took Leliana’s hand. She held it for a moment, then gave it a squeeze, meeting Leliana’s eyes with a silent nod. Then she let go, and descended the stairs, leaving Leliana with her ravens.

 

* * *

 

She kept her appointment with Josephine, but the whole time she spoke with the diplomat, she had difficulty keeping her mind on task. Lady Montilyet was a fascinating woman, a person she normally would have been eager to talk to at length and get to know, but she had been given far too much to think about by Leliana.

That portrait of her—the one painted to commemorate her wedding coronation—hung in Josephine Montilyet’s office, alongside one of Empress Celene and one of King Alistair, among several other monarchs, magisters, and sundry rulers from around Thedas, as if the Antivan diplomat collected the likenesses of world leaders. The portrait of herself made Esme nervous. The driven, idealistic girl she had once been gazed down at her from pearly satin froth, while the defeated world traveler she had become tried to carry on a polite conversation about Josephine’s family estate and trade business. Alistair’s likeness seemed to reproach her from ten years past and oil painted present, _Don’t forget about your sad puppy, dear wife._

Her thoughts kept going to what Leliana had said about Morrigan. Even if Alistair had invited her to Denerim in a fit of madness, there was no way she would accept. She would look upon such an invitation as a plot to steal her son, no doubt. Whatever else Leliana suspected correctly about what had happened between them ten years ago, she was wrong about this.

But Esme would only find out if she went there herself.

She made her rounds in Skyhold, speaking with some people she had known before, and others she had never met, but who wanted to introduce themselves to the Hero of Ferelden. She knew that all this excitement about her presence would ensure that news of her return would make it back to Denerim before she did. That is, if news of her visit to Fergus and his family in Highever had not already reached the royal palace.

Fergus had remarried after the Blight, and now had three children, all girls. Esme had not seen any of them in three years, and had given them gifts from her travels and doted upon them like a good aunt. But being there filled her with sadness, and she did not stay long. How Fergus could live there, with the ghosts of his parents, his first wife and only son, she did not know.

But perhaps it was not as bad for him. He had not been there to see their bodies. When he looked around those ancestral halls, all he saw were the good times, the memories of them as they had lived, not as they had died.

In any event, Highever was no longer her home. Denerim was her home.

She was resolved to head out for Denerim as soon as possible, no matter what sort of reception she was going to get there.

She dreaded having to tell Alistair that her long absence had been for nothing. She dreaded seeing if Morrigan was truly there and what purpose she had in mind. She dreaded Morrigan and her son _not_ being there.

But filled with dread as she was, she felt excited, too. A nervous excitement.

She was finally going home.

But first, she stopped by the library to speak with Fiona, the former Grand Enchanter who had been one of her few leads when she had started her journey. Esme didn’t have much in mind to say to the elf woman, besides a polite and diplomatic “Hello, how are you, how was starting a rebellion? Exciting, yes? Your information was useless, thanks anyway. I hear you made my husband very grumpy, I know that feeling hahaha.”

Well, maybe not all of that. At any rate, she saved her visit to Fiona for last, since the elf was one of the few people in Skyhold who didn’t seem particularly eager to have a word with the Hero of Ferelden.

Esme found Fiona in the library; she was seated at a cluttered desk, making notes in a tome. “Grand Enchanter,” she said, approaching her from behind.

Fiona jumped slightly, then turned around in her chair, looking nervous and evasive, which Esme remembered had been the elf’s usual demeanor the one other time she had met her. She had visited the Circle at Montsimmard, drawn by the information that Fiona was the only Grey Warden ever known to have lost the taint and left the order.

Now, she stood up and said, “Queen Esmeralda, I-I was not expecting you.”

“Please. I am not the Queen.”

Even standing, the slight-framed older woman had to hold her neck back to gaze up at Esme. She fidgeted with her hands, first folding them and then dropping them to her sides, then folding them again. “Of course, I apologize. In Orlais we simply refer to you as the Queen, you understand.”

“They do that in Ferelden too, but I am only the Princess Consort.”

It would be so easy to just let everyone dub her the Queen and not correct them. So easy. But though it was tiresome over the years to do so, she felt as if she must correct them every time. To let it just go made her feel wrong, as if by silence she were claiming the title when it had not been granted.

“What brings you here to speak with me?” Fiona asked.

“I thought you might like an update on the things we discussed when I visited you at Montsimmard.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Though there is not much to update. I tried to learn more about the magic you spoke of which you thought may have cleared you of the taint, but every lead was just another dead end, I am afraid.”

“That is too bad,” sighed Fiona. “I had hoped you would be able to make something of what I could recall about that time. But… well, I suppose it must always remain a mystery.”

“I hope not,” said Esme. “I have received some new information, and though I admit I don’t know what it means, I thought maybe you would.”

“I am happy to lend my experience to your cause,” Fiona said. “Curing the taint and freeing the Grey Wardens from their Calling is a noble endeavor.”

“Yes, I remember how much you supported my desire to help the Grey Wardens, earlier, which is why I thought I would come to you again."

"Please, sit, and tell me what you have found out.”

Fiona cleared some scrolls off of a chair and pulled it closer to the table. Esme sat, and said, “I was told by… well it doesn’t matter who told me… I was told that the secret to curing the taint lay in the blood of the great dragons. But I thought that the great dragons were a myth. There are dragons and there are high dragons… and there are the archdemons.”

“I do not know much about great dragons,” Fiona said. “As you said, they are largely thought to be myths, or extinct. Of course, up until a few decades ago, we thought that all dragons were extinct. So who is to say?”

Esme nodded, feeling disappointed but not sure why. Perhaps she had hoped that because of how high ranking a mage Fiona had been, she would have some more insight into the matter.

“Is this all you learned?” Fiona asked, curiously.

“Well, yes. I suppose my next task should be looking for a great dragon, but I would have no idea where to start,” Esme said with a laugh. “I was also told that I would find more information closer to home, but… that is not very much to go off of, is it? Not unless there is a great dragon in Denerim and no one noticed.”

Fiona remained serious despite Esme’s attempts at levity. She didn’t even get a chuckle out of the elf, and it occurred to her that she couldn’t remember seeing Fiona smile or laugh at all the last time they had spoken, either.

“There is a story about King Calenhad drinking the blood of a great dragon, is there not? The story goes that drinking the great dragon’s blood gave him the power to unite the Alamarri and that its magic was passed down to his descendants, which has granted them the power to rule over Ferelden for so many generations. Have you heard of this?”

Esme laughed again. She couldn’t help herself. “Oh, yes. I’m married to a Theirin, you forget.”

“I did not forget,” Fiona said solemnly.

“Right. Well, it did already occur to me that there might be something in the Theirin bloodline, but I ruled it out. Calenhad gaining magical prowess by drinking the blood may be just a story, and even if it isn’t… well, if the dragon blood was a cure of come sort, Alistair wouldn’t have been able to even become a Grey Warden in the first place. He would have been immune.”

“Yes,” Fiona said, thoughtfully. “I suppose you’re right. If Alistair were not a Grey Warden… but he is. He never should have been. He was not meant for that life.”

She said it so strangely that it made Esme raised one eyebrow. “Are you talking about his Templar training? I can assure you, that was a mistake, something he never wanted. You know, not even that many people remember now that he was almost a Templar.”

“A Templar, no,” Fiona spat, with a shudder. Then she seemed to compose herself, regretting her sudden outburst. “I only meant… well, I was acquainted with King Maric, as you might remember. Alistair’s father… had such hopes for him.”

“DId he?” Esme said in surprise. “Alistair always said his father barely even remembered he existed. He was not raised at court, but with Queen Rowan’s brother in Redcliffe.”

“As you say,” Fiona conceded, thought Esme got the distinct impression that she didn’t like to be contradicted. “It doesn’t matter.”

“No, I suppose it doesn’t,” Esme said, echoing Fiona’s muted, thoughtful tone.

Everyone in Ferelden knew the story of how the last Theirin had grown up a bastard ward of Eamon Guerrin. There were songs about it. How despite his mother’s lowborn commoner status, Alistair had won a duel against Loghain at the Landsmeet because the spirit of King Calenhad was with him that day. Those were songs sung by people who were happy with Alistair being king. They also sang songs about how the Theirins would never die out and that as long as there was a Theirin on the throne Ferelden would prosper.

Esme did hate to disappoint them. She wondered if they would be cursing the memory of her and Alistair after they died, because they had departed this mortal coil without giving Ferelden another dragon king to worship. Every time some calamity befell Ferelden it would be said it was because the Theirins had all died out, and she had let that happen.

At any rate, Maric had disappeared and been officially declared dead when Alistair was fifteen, but Alistair had never met his father in all those fifteen years. The idea that Maric would confide to an Orlesian mage about his fond hopes for his bastard son seemed rather out of character for the king who had taken advantage of a serving girl and then abandoned his orphaned son to his brother-in-law, to sleep in the stables with the mabaris before he was then shipped off to the Chantry at age nine.

She’d always assumed Maric felt nothing but shame and regret about Alistair’s existence, if he’d had any capacity for shame at all. The only thing less honorable than getting a bastard by a servant would be to get one by an elf.

And… there it was.

“Grand Enchanter,” she said, suddenly, her heart racing with the shock of her own ridiculous idea. “When you and King Maric traveled the deep roads, and had your run in with the Architect, just before you were cured… that was how long ago, exactly?”

“Oh, I don’t… really remember. It was a long time ago,” Fiona said, averting her eyes.

“Around thirty years ago?”

“I-I suppose so, yes. Something like that.”

Fiona stood up and took a few steps away. “They say that a Grey Warden lives only about thirty years after their Joining, if they were quite young to begin with, and quite lucky.” She nervously ran her hand along the spines of her books. “It would be thirty years for me, now. I had not been a Grey Warden for very long when the taint left me, mysteriously. I have outlived every other Grey Warden I knew, back then.”

Esme’s heart continued to pound wildly with the thought of what she had just puzzled out, so Fiona’s musings went past her. _Could it be?_ she thought. It seemed far-fetched, coincidental, but… it was the elf’s cringing, the emotional outburst, when Esme mentioned Alistair being a Templar that put the seed of the idea into her head, and now it would not leave.

When Esme first sought Fiona out, having learned how there was an elven mage who had once been a Grey Warden, she’d spoken at length with the Grand Enchanter about the events surrounding the loss of her taint. Fiona had travelled into the Deep Roads with a party that included Duncan, then only a teenager, and King Maric. The King had been their guide, for he had traveled those roads many years prior during the campaign to wrest Ferelden back from the Orlesians. There, they had met the Architect.

At the time, Esme had been far more interested in the things Fiona could remember about the Architect, his magic, and the brooches that had been given to the party and had caused an artificial acceleration of their taint. Duncan had been protected by an obsidian dagger he had stolen from the mage who created the brooches and who had been in league with the Architect, a stroke of luck for him. The other Wardens who wore the brooches had ended up dying, excluding Fiona and Utha, a dwarven Silent Sister.

Fiona had seemed sad when Esme related the story of her own encounter with the Architect, because Utha had still been at the strange, cunning darkspawn’s side. She seemed to disapprove of Esme’s decision to enlist the Architect’s help against the Mother instead of just killing him, but not so much that she refused to continue talking to Esme and offering her what advice and help she could in her search to cure the Calling.

They had discussed the effects of the taint at length, Fiona relating how terrible it had been to see what became of Grey Wardens eventually, how her comrades in arms had transformed as the taint ravaged them. Her story had sent Esme on to Weisshaupt, the ancient Grey Warden fortress far northwest in the Anderfels, because that is where the brooches had ended up, Fiona herself taking them there to submit them to the Wardens for inspection.

The brooches had ultimately been a dead end, thought speaking with the Grey Warden mages at Weisshaupt had given Esme a few more leads to follow. All dead ends, as well, of course. But enough to keep her busy and away from home for three years.

Now, Esme suspected that Fiona had left out several factors in the story she had told to her. She had not mentioned anything more about King Maric than that he had been there, with them, fighting with them and helping them to escape the Deep Roads. Esme had talked with her more about Duncan, sharing a bit about the short time she had known him after he came to Highever and saved her from the Howes, recruiting her to be a Grey Warden. Fiona spoke fondly of her memories of Duncan, and was sad that he had died because of Loghain’s abandonment at Ostagar, but expressed gladness that Alistair had avenged him, in a way, when he killed Loghain at the Landsmeet.

But Esme had had no real reason to probe Fiona for her opinions or feelings on Maric. She had asked, only, if Fiona thought Maric had been a good sort of man, and when Fiona had said yes, he was, that had been that.

Now, Fiona then turned back to Esme. “Your Highness,” she said, “would you please walk with me? I feel a sudden need to get out of this stuffy library. A walk upon the battlements, perhaps? The views of the mountains from the castle walls are breathtaking.”

Esme stood up. “Yes,” she said. “I think that would be a good idea.”

They would be able to talk more privately, up high on the castle walls, away from quiet, shadowy corners where an eavesdropper could hide.

She followed the former Grand Enchanter out and up a flight of long stone steps to a high stretch of the wall. It seemed to take forever before Fiona felt comfortable with a spot, secluded and far away from the bustling courtyards and gardens below.

Esme was silent. She didn’t want to just outright push her mad theory onto Fiona, so she leaned on the stones and waited for the elf to speak first. Fiona was right about the view: the Frostbacks stretched out as far as the eye could see. They was facing west towards Orlais.

“I wonder,” said Fiona, hesitantly, “if you would tell me… is the King, is Alistair… is he happy?”

 _Oh, Maker,_ Esme thought, remembering the terse note he had sent to Leliana. “I have been away for awhile,” she said. “I don’t know the King’s current mood.”

“I saw him at Redcliffe. His mood was very sour. Not that I blame him, entirely. He gave me and my mages refuge in Redcliffe, and I made a mess of it all. I was a fool to turn to the Tevinters, and I am still ashamed for it. But all that is past; the Inquisitor is a woman of infinite mercy, and I owe her a great deal for allowing us an alliance.”

“It would have been nice to meet her.”

Fiona nodded, but was not distracted. “I only asked about Alistair because, well, they say many things about you in Orlais and Ferelden. I don’t know which story is true. I have often wondered.”

Esme laughed, softly. “I’ve heard a great many stories about myself, as well. It is amazing what one can learn when traveling incognito.”

“Some say you married the king to gain power, to avenge your family. Others say you simply wanted to be Queen, to satisfy your own vanity, so you found Maric’s bastard and used him to gain a viable claim. Others say that Eamon Guerrin arranged your marriage to help legitimize Alistair in the eyes of the nobility, since the Couslands are a very old and powerful family, and your heroics at the Battle of Denerim made you quite popular with the people.”

“Is that all?”

“Others say that you loved the King, and he loved you.”

“The bards say that, I imagine. Makes for better songs.”

“I wish to know the truth.”

“Well, I can tell you that the one where Eamon arranged our marriage is definitely not true. Cousland name or not, Chancellor Guerrin would much rather have picked out a different bride. One with nice, wide, child bearing hips and nothing upstairs.”

“Please, do not be flippant. I wish for a serious answer.”

“Why? Why is it important to you?”

“I only wish to know if he has been happy.”

“If I told you that I loved him, would that guarantee that he has been happy?”

Fiona’s hands twitched, and Esme felt a crackle in the air, a hint of magic. The elf was growing impatient.

“If I told you we were happy together, would it make you less likely to try to kill me to protect your secret?” Esme asked, icily, her hand straying towards where her sword would have been hanging, if she were not dressed casually inside the castle.

“What secret?” Fiona asked, tossing her head slightly, as if in challenge.

“That you are Alistair’s mother,” said Esme. She had feared it would sound ludicrous once voiced, but the devastated expression on the elf’s face told her that she had not been wrong.

“That is absurd,” Fiona said, utterly failing to be convincing in her deniel. Her eyes seemed about to overflow with tears. “And you cannot prove it.”

“But it makes sense, doesn’t it? Thirty years ago, you traveled with King Maric, fought beside him… fell in love, I might guess?”

 _Oh, Maric’s boys…_ a whisper of Anora’s voice came to her memory. _They do have their charms…_

“Ridiculous,” Fiona said.

“You became pregnant, gave birth, and somehow, magically, was cured of the taint,” Esme surmised, her tone unfaltering, certain that was she said was true. “Didn’t it ever occur to you that it might be connected? How many Grey Wardens have ever even managed to carry a child and give birth successfully? None that I know of, and believe me, I have had a vested interest in that subject, so I have asked around.”

Fiona did not answer, instead made a move to strike out at Esme with a magical push. But before she could get the spell off, before she could fling her to her death on the ground far below, Esme drew from the meager templar skills she possessed, and cleansed the area of all magic.

The spell was interrupted and Fiona reeled back, shock and disgust on her face.

“That was…! You are… a Templar?” she hissed.

“No,” Esme said, crouched in a defensive position, wishing for her shield and sword. “That’s just a trick your son taught me, a long time ago.”

That mention of Alistair cut Fiona deeply, but at the moment Esme could not bring herself to feel any pity.

“I have little love for Templars, but when you’ve fought against as many maleficarum as I have, you learn whatever you can.” She smiled, thinly. “Please stop trying to kill me. I am not being flippant when I say that my death would make Alistair sad… since that is something you seem to care about, I hope it will make you stop this madness.”

“What you know could destroy him,” Fiona said, after a long moment, in which she seemed to be at war with her own mind. “Surely I do not need to explain why.”

“No, I can see very plainly how inconvenient it would be for the King to be the son of an Orlesian elf mage. I don’t think that the love Ferelden has for the Theirins could excuse it. We’d have riots.”

“Even if he had never become the King, I would never want him to know,” Fiona said, a crack in her voice. “He is better off not knowing. Elven blood and mage heritage only brings oppression, slavery, sadness. Shame. He is better off believing himself to be the son of a mundane human woman.”

“That may be so, but I would still like to not fight with you. If I had to kill you, it would weigh on my conscience.”

“You must not tell him any of this,” Fiona said, completely ignoring her sarcastic threat. “You must promise to tell no one.”

Esme laughed shortly. “I would never do anything to see my husband cast down.”

“You could usurp the throne,” Fiona said, very carefully. “You could leverage your title as Hero of Ferelden and Queen to put yourself in his place.”

“There are those who say my true parentage is tied to Orlais, you know,” Esme said. “Or Antiva, Rivain, somewhere foreign… I’ve heard all the different variety of theories and rumors. Who knows. But I doubt that deposing Alistair would give me any power. Even so… you don’t know me at all, so I can forgive you for thinking so little of me, but I would never do anything to hurt Alistair. I swear.”

Fiona seemed to relax, a little. She lowered her hands. “Then you will promise not to speak of this to him?”

“I don’t know if I can promise that.”

“You must. I have sacrificed too much, to see it all be for naught. He must never know.” She became agitated again. “I would rather he mourn your death, I would rather they execute me for killing you, I would rather he cursed me and spat in my face, than for him to find out.”

Esme started at her long and hard for a moment. “I won’t tell him,” she said, relenting. She was not sure that Fiona wouldn’t try to kill her anyway, just to be safe, but she tired of the arguing. “You have to tell me some things, before I go.”

“What things? Haven’t I admitted enough?”

“I still do not understand how carrying King Maric’s child cured you of the taint, but then Alistair was able to be infected, himself.”

“Neither do it.” Fiona turned her face to the mountains. The cold breeze ruffled her short black hair. “Perhaps that is not what cured me,” she mused. “Perhaps it truly was coincidence. Perhaps it was the Architect's magic, or the brooches Remielle gave us. Perhaps it was both things at once, coming together to create a miracle. Perhaps any Grey Warden woman who bears a child loses the taint, perhaps it is passed to the child, perhaps Alistair had just enough dragon’s blood to resist, to survive being born to such a mother, but it did not last into adulthood. Perhaps it was none of those things. I truly do not know.”

“I see,” Esme said, with a sinking feeling. Would there ever be a way to find out? If she was able to have Alistair’s child it would have happened already.

“I have no answers for you. You were better off not knowing my secret. There is nothing to be gained from the truth. Nothing learned.”

“I don’t know about that,” Esme said, shaking off her disappointment. “I feel like I have learned a lot.” Then she turned and walked away from Alistair’s mother. She did not look back, not the entire length of the battlement, even as she felt the penetrating elven eyes follow her every step of the way.

Esme gathered up her things, put on her armor and her sword and shield, then bid goodbye to Leliana. She went to the stables to retrieve her horse, and found Ser Bumperton gnawing happily on a large bone some admirer had gifted him.

“Come, boy,” she said. “We have a long road ahead of us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. All of Fiona's backstory can be found in "The Calling" by David Gaider. A good read if you love death and dying and having Dragon Age characters rip your heart from your chest. Fiona/Maric 5ever. Teenage Duncan is a cutie. There's also a dog.
> 
> 2\. Obviously, I'm headcanoning hard about Alistair's codex letters from DAI. If he is King, they do their best to impress upon you what a big old embarrassing dumbo he is, and as someone who was very particular about hardening him in DAO so that he would willingly be King and I'd get that epilogue where it says he gave it his best effort, I am annoyed that you get unhardened, no-fucks-given King Alistair in DAI either way. My only way to massage it to fit my preferred World State, is to reason that he's playing dumb on purpose. Whether it's the best tactic or not, at least it assigns some method to his madness. I also think that in light of Ferelden's hostile attitude toward the Inquisition in Trespasser, and Alistair's dialogue in DAO where he tells the Warden he's going to play stupid to avoid having to answer the Orlesian Wardens' suspicions about their survival, it is as good a headcanon as any.


	7. Mothers

* * *

  _9:42 Dragon_

* * *

 

They met her outside the city gates, a whole contingent of soldiers, nobles, and diplomats, with the King seated on a horse at the head.

She was not sure what she had been expecting. When she returned from Amaranthine she had gotten a heroes’ welcome, a happy husband’s embrace, and when she had returned from her talk with Morrigan she had slipped through the gates in the early morning, startling the guards who had not expected her that day, or possibly any day.

She supposed she thought it would be more like that time. When she imagined seeing Alistair again she saw herself walking up on him inside the palace, in an empty throne room or study or bedchamber, saw him turning in surprise and then ran several different reactions through her head. Anger, disbelief, indifference, joy, lust, crying.

But their reunion was not to be a private one.

She saw her welcoming party as she crested the rise of a hill, Denerim spread out before her and the royal party in front of her. Alistair wore his crown and a fur lined cape, dressed every inch a King for the occasion. She could not make out the detail of his expression at first, no more than she could everyone else’s, not until she rode her horse closer.

He was smiling, but it was a sort of bemused half smile, a guarded smile. It said “well well well look what the cat dragged in” clearer than words. She rode up to him silently, Ser Bumperton trotting along beside her horse as he had for thousands of miles.

The ranks of soldiers and guards let her pass. She thought that they were probably there to safeguard the king more than to welcome her. She had no idea how long he’d been sitting out on the road, waiting.

“Hello,” she said. It seemed a small and insignificant word after three years.

He reached out his hand. He wore fine nugskin gloves, and she noticed as she took his hand that her own gloves had become very old and tired looking. They had been new when she set out, but now the leather was cracked and thin.

He took her hand and kissed it as if she were a visiting dignitary from Orlais, saying, “Welcome home, dear wife.”

“I wasn’t expecting the welcoming party,” she said, embarrassed. She didn’t know if the smiling eyes and mocking tone was because he was aware how unnecessary this entire cavalcade of people was, or because she wasn’t his “dear wife” anymore. His wife, yes, but not a dear one.

She knew she only had herself to blame if that were the case.

Chancellor Eamon was there, of course, and he responded to her statement before Alistair had a chance. “Modest as ever,” he said, “but we had word of your return several days ago and have had scouts watching the road. All of Denerim will benefit from seeing Ferelden’s hero return.”

Alistair was still holding onto her hand. She had ridden up close enough beside his horse that their legs touched as their mounts shifted underneath them.

“He’s right,” he said. “It’s been one crisis after another ever since you left. It will be good for the people to see you again.”

_Just the people?_

“Very well,” she said, and he released her hand so they could turn their horses towards Denerim.

She was not against the idea of parades in her honor, not in principle. She’d enjoyed several instances since the end of the Blight, when people cheered. But then she had been able to tell herself that she deserved it, or that the people deserved it, that they were turning out to see her instead of being dead.

But she hadn’t done anything the merit praise in a long time. She had done nothing to deserve a hero’s welcome home… she had not been out fighting Corypheus or the Venatori or anything like that.

She was not naive though. She knew that this was a strategic political move, that it was the Idea of her which was to parade through the streets, waving to the crowds on her way home. She was Ferelden’s Hero, Denerim’s Savior, King’s Consort.

She looked at him as they rode together, side by side, past the citizens who had come to wave and throw flowers at her. He looked older than she remembered him, and she didn’t know if it was because the last three years had aged him more rapidly or if she had just become so used to the tiny, outdated portrait she carried around her neck.

He wore his hair differently.

She thought of Fiona, and her eyes trailed to his ears, even though she knew there was no trace of his mother’s race in him. She would have seen it before.

It was difficult to identify elf-blooded humans in Thedas. Some people carried tell-tale markers… a slighter-than-normal frame, ever so subtly pointed ears, and eyes that could catch the light in a certain way. But those people were rare. Secret elf-blooded humans were probably a lot more common than anyone liked to think.

It occured to Esme that she could be elf-blooded herself and never know it, since she had no idea who her birth parents were. Funny how that worked. Nothing mattered but her Cousland name and his Theiren blood, but the people had no idea who they truly were. They did not even know themselves.

She would have to tell him, eventually. She knew that.

She’d never meant to keep her promise to Fiona. It wasn’t even a promise, really. She didn’t consider something she said to keep a crazy elf mage from killing her to be binding.

Fiona had to have known that when she let her walk away.

But still, she did not know how she was going to broach the subject. She didn’t know how he would react, or what it would mean to him to learn that not only did his mother still live, but he had met her. And she was an elf. An elf mage. An Orlesian elf mage.

Probably if she was any other woman he would be happy if shocked to know she was alive. She had abandoned him, yes… but was it really abandonment if his life would have been worse had she kept him? Whatever else Esme thought of Fiona and her motives, she understood that Alistair’s mother had spared him a lifetime of anti-elven oppression from humans and anti-human-passing resentment from elves.

He never ever would have been able to become king. He would always just be Maric’s bastard, a shameful reminder that the king had a dalliance with an elf.

Ironically, it made Esme think a little more kindly of her deceased father-in-law. Perhaps he had truly cared for Fiona, and she for him. If they had fought side by side in the Deep Roads, if their son was a product of a love affair instead of a powerful man forcing himself on a servant who could not afford to say no, then Esme couldn’t find it in herself to disapprove of the King’s memory quite as much as she once had.

He had still abandoned Alistair to Redcliffe, to be raised with the mabari hounds in Arl Eamon’s kennels. But perhaps he had not known. Perhaps he had thought that his son was being well cared for in the home of his brother-in-law.

Not that it mattered. She had never met Maric, she never would. Whatever his sins and whatever his virtues, he was long dead, lost at sea.

They reached the royal palace after what felt like an eternity of parading through the streets. The Chantry bells were ringing to let everyone know she was home, and the low gong in the distance as the palace gates closed behind them triggered a feeling of deja vu, but she could not place it.

Alistair swung down off his horse as soon as they were in the courtyard, and came over to hold out a hand to her. She had been dismounting without any assistance for years, she was a warrior not a dainty lady who rode sidesaddle and needed a hand on her bottom to help her in and out of the stirrups, but Alistair did always like to be gallant.

She allowed him to help her down, swinging one leg over the saddle and then placing her hands on his shoulders, letting him catch her at the waist as she descended. It was a graceful dismount she had watched Oriana and Fergus perform many times, as a girl.

Then she was standing in the courtyard staring into her husband’s eyes. She remembered the showy kiss they had shared when she returned from Amaranthine, while onlookers cheered, and she suddenly felt shy. As if it were the first time she had held his gaze just a little too long.

She cast her eyes downward, feeling the three year gulf acutely between them, no matter that he was still holding her waist. He leaned in and gave her a kiss on each cheek, brief and chaste, the sort of polite, deferential kiss he might give to any important visitor.

Ser Bumperton had begun to prance and bark around their feet, and Alistair released his hold on Esme, turning to rub the hound’s head and congratulate him on making it home in one piece. “What’s that?” he asked, pretending to understand the dog’s various noises, “I promised an entire roasted fennec if you brought her back safe and sound?” _(Impatient woof.)_ “Well, yes, I do remember.” _(Questioning yip.)_ “Of course I’m good for it, Ser, I’m the King.”

No one in the courtyard was surprised to see their King petting and conversing with a war hound—this was Ferelden after all. Esme thought her dog was getting a more enthusiastic reception than she had, however, and when Ser Bumperton tried to cover his face in wet kisses, she said impatiently, “Yes, yes, he’s a good dog.”

Alistair chuckled and straightened, turning back to her. Then he said, “You must be tired.”

“Not at all,” she answered, though it was a lie. She had just grown weary of everyone saying it since she returned. From Highever to Skyhold to Denerim, every time she got off her horse, _You must be tired._

“Oh?” he raised his eyebrows. “Well, that’s fortunate, since there’s going to be a feast in your honor and everyone has shown up for it.”

“You’re serious?”

“As the grave.” He turned, offering her his arm, and they walked into the palace together. The Chancellor and others followed behind them, with Ser Bumperton proudly taking his rightful place at Esme’s heels.

Inside there were more nobles in the great hall. She sighed a little. She should have expected as much, but she had underestimated how quickly and extravagantly they would prepare for her arrival as soon as they got wind that she was coming. The scouts must have been tracking her progress all across Ferelden.

“Yes,” he said, in response to her sigh and put out expression, “I wanted to make your return as awkward for you as possible. This was all my idea.”

That caught her off guard. It should not have, but somehow after three years she had forgotten how biting his sarcasm could be. And yet, she wasn’t entirely sure this was sarcasm, or if it was plain truth masked in a sardonic tone.

At her wide-eyed silence he said, “I’m joking, Esme. It was Eamon’s idea. Morale for the people, and all that.”

“You agreed to it.”

“I’m an agreeable fellow.”

“Can I at least wash and change my clothes from the road before I have to deal with all this?” she asked, motioning at the great hall teeming with Ferelden’s finest.

“So you _are_ tired.”

“Would it give you pleasure if I admitted it?”

“This isn’t a battle, dear wife.”

“Yes, I would like some time to recover from my journey. I would say that I hate to keep the people waiting, but…”

“The people will wait for you,” he said. “They have waited this long.” There is was again. _The people._

“I was hoping to speak with you.”

“You are.”

“Privately.”

“And you will.” He put a hand on her back, leaned in, and said, not quite whispering, “We have a lot to talk about.”

She had hardly been touched at all for the past three years, much less all the casually intimate ways he had done thus far, and she looked at him, wondering if he just did it without thinking, as naturally as if they had not been apart at all, or if he did it deliberately, to remind her of what she had left behind.

“We could ignore the feast and do it now,” she suggested, and was rewarded with a genuine look of surprise. He dropped his hand from her back, and she was embarrassed. “Talk, I mean,” she added.

“I can’t. I have to stay here and preside over this whole shindig,” he said. “Do my kingly duty, and all.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Go on,” he said, nudging her. “You do remember where your chambers are? We haven’t walled them off and turned it all into a dusty forbidden wing, not just yet. Or at least if someone did order that done, at some point, so that he could weep there every night alone, they’ve been opened back up again. They’re all set up for you. The servants will draw you a bath.”

She gave him a long, silent, unamused stare, but then finally turned away.

She did remember how to find her way to her chambers, and they were buzzing with servant activity, just as he had said. She dismissed them all, wanting to be alone, and not used to being waited on hand and foot again.

Maybe she didn’t have a right to be upset that he was so clearly avoiding her by begging off to preside over Eamon’s utterly pointless feast, but she was, and she wasn’t in a mood to talk herself out of that feeling.

She was in the bath, stewing over this, when she felt a soft brush against her back as a hand traced across her shoulders. She jumped in surprise, splashing water all over the floor and banging her knees on the insides of the tub.

For a moment she thought Alistair had changed his mind, but the chuckle her startled response elicited was not his.

She braced herself against the edge of the tub as Morrigan circled it, coming round to stand by the side and face her.

“And so the queen returns and all of Ferelden rejoices,” she said in a mocking croon.

“Morrigan,” Esme replied, in an even tone that she hoped did not betray the uneven beating of her heart. “You’re wearing real clothes. Times _have_ changed.”

“Oh. yes. Do you like it?” Morrigan spread out her arms and turned around once. She wore a gown cut in the Orlesian style, its colors black, maroon, and gold, with a plunging ruffled neckline and wide full skirt.

“It’s a bit much.”

“Don’t be grumpy. Tis for your party, after all.”

“It’s very Orlesian.”

 _“Tis very Orlesian,”_ Morrigan echoed mockingly. “You sound like Loghain.”

Esme sank down into the bathwater and said, “Leliana told me you would be here. I didn’t believe her.”

“You have been away for a very long time,” Morrigan observed. She dragged a chair over to the side of the tub and sat down, taking a moment to arrange her skirts, and then reached out to lazily run a hand across the soap skimmed surface of the water. She flicked the droplets off her fingers at Esme. “We thought you were never coming home.”

“We? Is it ‘we’ now?” Esme asked, resurfacing and causing the water to lap at the edges of the tub in waves. “Are you sleeping with my husband, Morrigan?”

Morrigan threw back her head and laughed. “Oh dear,” she said, “that _would_ be the first conclusion you would reach, you silly girl. No. Why would I do such a thing? Twould be a betrayal of our friendship, and I would have to listen to him crying out your name, which would do great damage to _my_ ego.”

Esme rose up out of the water with a great deliberate dignity, and stood there, dripping, her shoulders thrown back. Then she stepped out of the tub and threw on a dressing gown. With her back to Morrigan, she said, “I am not in a mood to be teased and taunted.”

“Clearly.”

Esme turned around, tying up the dressing gown, then crossed her arms. “I would like to know what you are doing here.”

Morrigan still sat perched on the chair, an incongruous sight in her voluptuous gown, but she seemed wholly unconcerned. She shrugged. “Twas not Alistair I came to Denerim to see, but you, foolish girl.”

“I wasn’t in Denerim.”

“No, but you are now. I knew you would return. Eventually.”

“How long have you been here?”

“A few months. Ever since the Inquisition served its purpose, and I felt twas time to move on.”

“Where is your son?”

Morrigan leaned forward and said, conspiratorially, “Probably in the hall, eating too much cake.”

“You brought him here? To Denerim? Are you mad?”

“He goes wherever I go,” Morrigan said. “Why should that be a surprise?”

Esme narrowed her eyes. It occurred to her that Morrigan was speaking as if they were not alone, and she glanced around, half expecting to see a spy lurking in the corner of the room.

She wanted to ask Morrigan why, after all her protestations that they would never see the child, and that she wanted nothing to do with the throne, would she bring him here knowing full well how it would seem. But whether Esme’s private chambers were vulnerable to other ears, or not, it seemed Morrigan did not want to speak plainly.

“Kieran spent several years in the Orlesian court with me,” Morrigan said, conversationally. “We stayed with the Inquisition for a short time, and he liked it there, but I had no desire to stay there indefinitely. To see Denerim is good for his education, I think. I certainly never wanted to raise him the way Flemeth raised me, all isolated and hidden in the depths of the wilds. It is good for him to travel with me and learn about different cultures.”

“So you do not plan to stay long,” Esme said, trying to obliquely suss out what Morrigan intended. “Off to Antiva next? Tevinter? Going to tour all the kingdoms of Thedas?”

“Perhaps.”

“The King was very generous to welcome you to court.”

Morrigan’s eyes danced, as if a dozen rejoinders had leapt to mind, but she evidently decided not to try her luck, for she only said, “He has been very kind.”

“You play a dangerous game, Morrigan.”

“Do you think so? I should think I have nothing to fear from two of my oldest, dearest friends in all of Thedas. What safer place for us than here? Especially after the viper pits of Val Royeaux and the Winter Palace, and the warzone of Skyhold.”

“At one point you vowed never to return to Denerim, as I recall.”

“Yes, well, would it please you to hear me say that I cannot predict the future? Even my own decisions?”

“I’d just like to understand those decisions for once.”

“You once told me that I did not have to do this alone. I did not believe you, at the time. But perhaps now, I do.”

“What changed?”

Morrigan smiled sadly. “Many things. I would like to talk with you about them, later.” She stood up. “For now, I merely wanted to say hello.” She turned as if to go.

“Wait.”

Morrigan paused, looking at her curiously.

“It’s been a very long time since I attended a royal function,” Esme said. “Especially not one in my honor. I, uh… would appreciate some help getting ready.”

Morrigan smiled. “My life in recent years has been an endless parade of royal functions, though they have all been _very Orlesian.”_

“I would settle for looking like a royal consort and not some stranger who washed ashore with the driftwood,” Esme said.

“Hmmmmm,” Morrigan mused, walking over to the wardrobe and flinging open the doors as if she expected to find a spy there. There was nothing but Esme’s old clothes, untouched in three years. “Tis a tragic sight,” she summarized. “But we will have to make due. Is there any particular set of eyes you would like to entice?”

“Presentable. I just want to look presentable.”

“Then you wouldn’t have asked for my help,” said Morrigan, pawing through the various dresses and sneering at each one.

“Fine,” Esme said, stomping over to her vanity and sitting down before the clouded mirror. “Help me look beautiful.”

Morrigan let the cloth drop from her hands and turned back to her. “Oh Esme,” she said, and it wasn’t even mocking, “you silly girl. You are quite beautiful without any help.”

Esme waved one hand dismissively. “No false flattery Morrigan, it doesn’t become you.”

“I am being utterly serious.” Morrigan stood behind her chair and looked at her reflection. She reached up one hand to stroke Esme’s hair, which was unbound from the customarily tight pair of braided buns at the base of her neck, now a riot of unruly curls that haloed around her head. There were few people in her lifetime who had ever been allowed to touch her hair. She was very still, now, as Morrigan ran her fingers through it gently, careful not to tangle.

“You know, I have always thought that you are most strikingly beautiful when fighting, splattered with the blood of foes you have vanquished, your eyes shining with the heat of the battle. I have seen few sights so majestic in my life.”

“Are you suggesting that I should slaughter everyone at the feast?” Esme intoned dryly.

Morrigan laughed. “No. But, I think you are often so uncomfortable and insecure in formal dress because women’s fashions are so uninspiring in Ferelden. All the dresses are cut so boring and modest and prim. When they are designed to flatter they are meant to highlight a woman’s weakness, her softness, her demure nature. And that is of course hogwash for any woman who can survive at court, but you most of all.” Morrigan sighed, tucking Esme’s hair behind her ear and resting a hand on her shoulder. “If I had more time I could dress you in something that truly suited you.”

Esme turned and looked up at her. “How long do you plan to stay here?”

“That,” said Morrigan, “is something we can discuss later.”

 

* * *

>   _Alistair: That’s him? Oh… I thought he’d look, I don’t know, more demonic. Tentacles and fiery breath._
> 
> _Morrigan: He is a normal boy, Alistair._
> 
> _Alistair: Uh-huh. And what does he know of… how he was made?_
> 
> _Morrigan: He knows his father was a good man. I—I thought you deserved that much._
> 
> _Alistair: (chuckles) He’s changed you._
> 
> _Morrigan: Don’t be absurd._
> 
> _— Dragon Age: Inquisition_  

* * *

 

When they walked into the great hall, side by side, everyone went silent and turned to look. It certainly was not the first time Esme had entered a room to be the center of attention, but it had been long enough that she felt incredibly nervous.

She was wearing one of her old dresses, a deep green satin gown, but Morrigan had ripped at it and re-sewn and pinned it in way that quickly made it look utterly different. She had also done up Esme’s hair in a way she had never worn it before, painting her face and adorning her with the jewelry Esme had collected avidly but rarely worn, and had been sitting untouched in a chest for years.

When Alistair saw them coming for him, arm in arm, he looked half in awe and half alarmed. “Ahhhhhhhh.” he said, standing from his chair. The others around him followed suite in deference to her. “I see you’ve found Morrigan. Well, that’s good. Good. Glad that’s out of the way. Good. Very good.”

“I shall leave you to this bumbling fool,” said Morrigan, releasing her arm, but it wasn’t said with malice. She blew Esme a kiss and faded back into the crowd, soon lost to sight, just another finely dressed woman in attendance.

Esme climbed the steps to where Alistair stood at the banquet table. She sat in the empty spot next to him, allowing the other nobles arrayed around to sit as well. Alistair was the only one who remained standing. He had the attention of the rest of the room, and she knew a speech was forthcoming.

He talked about how grateful and happy everyone should be to welcome home the Hero of Ferelden. He said lot of things about how tumultuous the last few years had been, what with the mage rebellion and the Mage-Templar War, and the breach, and Corypheus, and the increased bandits and raiders that came with such desperate times. But, he said, that was all behind them now and Ferelden was rebuilding, and stronger than ever, and she wondered if he were talking about more than their country at that moment. He seemed to be at least implying that Ferelden’s recent troubles began when she left and were over now that she was back, without being able to actually say she’d had anything to do with any of it, because she hadn’t.

He turned to her with a fond smile, and reached down to take her hand. In the other he held up a goblet, and she thought he was going to toast to her, but instead he said, “Now, I have an announcement.”

Everyone in the room, who had been hanging on his every word already, seemed to lean forward in anticipation. Maker bless him, he did know how to work the crowd. She tilted her head to the side and frowned a little, a prickle of unease spreading in her chest. The fact that this announcement would be new to her as well as the others made her worry. She glanced over at Eamon, and saw almost the same expression on his face that she wore on her own.

“As many of you already know, one month from now will mark the tenth anniversary of the day I married the world’s most remarkable woman,” said Alistair, still looking directly at her. “She is the queen of my heart, and I know, all of yours,” he turned and gestured with the goblet around the room, giving all of them a knowing wink and getting appreciative laughter in return, “but official court nonsense being such as it is,” the laughter increased, “she has not been afforded the title she deserves. And that is why, one month from now, we will have a new coronation ceremony. A re-coronation, just to establish what _all of us_ already know to be true.” He waived the goblet towards her, “Here sits the Queen of Ferelden.”

The hall erupted into applause, as Alistair finally raised the goblet and toasted, “Long live our Queen!” before taking a long gulp, draining the entire cup.

He sat back down, and as he did so, swooped in for a kiss to her cheek.

As he had been speaking, and as Esme had begun to catch on to what he was about, she had gradually begun to squeeze his hand, until she had it in a death drip so strong it was a wonder his fingers didn’t break. She looked at him in stunned silence, not moving.

The look he gave her was at first triumphant, as if he were extremely proud of himself for the surprise. But her cold demeanor made him squirm, and he said, “I thought you would be pleased.”

Esme did not know how she felt.

She knew why he had done it. Leliana had told her, back in Skyhold. She had so much as told her that he was going to do this, and Esme hadn’t even given it a second thought. Leliana _knew,_ she knew somehow. That woman knew everything.

He was going to make her Queen, because he thought that was all she wanted, that that was all she needed to stay, all that was left to make her happy. All that it would take to make her love him, because he was one of the people who thought she had never loved him, never wanted anything besides the throne, after all. He may as well have just said it in a speech to the noble classes of Ferelden.

It made her angry. It made her sad.

It made her want to tear her hair out of its fancy new coif and scream.

And then, perhaps, cry.

He was watching her face, she realized. Trying to suss out why she was silent and grave instead of smug, like the cat who ate the canary, to have finally gotten “her way.”

“Esme?” he said, quietly now. “Is this about Morrigan? I can explain…”

She yanked her hand away, finally releasing him from the death grip. “No it’s not about Morrigan,” she said in a whispered hiss. It truly wasn’t. She had almost forgotten for a few minutes that Morrigan was there.

Now she did wonder if Morrigan had seen this coming and had not warned her? How much did Alistair confide in Morrigan these days? She would have thought not at all, but she also would not have thought Morrigan would even be there, so.

“You did not warn me,” she said, in a low voice so that those around them could not hear. The room was loud with talk and laughter and music, now that the King’s speech was over, but she still knew that no conversation they had could truly be private. “We could have discussed this, if you had not refused to talk with me privately. I do not like surprises.”

It wasn’t at all what was truly bothering her, but she felt as if she could not say, not here in the great hall, seated at the great table, whispering back and forth to each other.

“I didn’t plan it,” he said. “It just… came to me. Spur of the moment. I thought it would be a _good_ surprise.”

“Then you’re even stupider than Morrigan always said you were,” she snapped, and he sat back, looking dazed, as if he could not comprehend how his little show could have possibly gone wrong.

They did not speak after that, at least, not to each other. There were plenty of other people seeking their attention that it was easy enough to sit next to each other without saying anymore. Esme regretted her harsh words.

A parade of nobles came walking up to her table throughout the night, presenting themselves or their children or their nieces and nephews and cousins twice removed to her for introductions. Her mood dipped further south when Goldanna came walking up with her five children, now all teenagers, shuffling behind her.

Goldanna. Ugh. How she loathed that woman.

After Alistair had been made king ten years ago, he had tried to bring Goldanna to court, to be one of Esme’s ladies-in-waiting, but that had been a brief and disastrous arrangement. There had been a contest to see which one of them hated the other more.

After Esme had threatened to drown Goldanna in a vat of darkspawn blood (not one of her finer moments, she knew) Alistair had found a nobleman who was willing to marry far below his station if it meant the King would be indebted to him for taking his shrewish half-sister off his conscience. Alistair gave Goldanna and her new husband large sums of money and a house in the noble districts of Denerim. He had been like a dog with a bone and Eamon had helped make it happen just to get him to focus on something else.

Now, Goldanna was Lady Smitherpotsomethingorother and made her foolish husband’s life a living hell. Rumor had it he spent more time at the Pearl than his own sumptuous home, with the sharp tongued washerwoman he had married.

Considering her own husband was sitting beside her looking like a puppy someone had tried to drown, because of her sharp words to him, Esme didn’t want to even be reminded that Goldanna existed.

Maker’s foul smelling breath—Goldanna wasn’t even Alistair’s sister, half, quarter, or otherwise. Esme realized that all of a sudden. _She wasn’t even his sister!_

Esme laughed, and Alistair looked at her curiously, before noticing that Goldanna was on her way. He groaned. He didn’t like Goldanna any more than anyone else who had ever met her, but it was his damnable loyalty to anyone he thought was related to him that meant he kept giving her and her philandering husband a regular allowance to keep them in whores and carriages.

“I need to take the air,” she announced, then got up and left the table before Goldanna could reach her. Alistair stood up, along with everyone else, but instead of following after her, he sank back into his chair to be accosted by Goldanna.

Esme fled the great hall, which was far too suffocating and filled with people.

She needed to be eased back into court life, not tossed into it like a bone into a soup pot.

The night air was cool and welcoming on her face. She stepped out and kept to the shadows along the wall, not wanting to speak to anyone who might be outside.

She heard Ser Bumperton’s bark, and followed the sound, thinking to take some comfort in stroking his fur and telling him her troubles.

She rounded a corner and saw her hound, acting the puppy, running back and forth chasing a stick that a laughing boy was tossing for him. Esme stood, unable to move, and was lost in a memory.

That could easily be Oren, a day before his death, playing with Ser Bumperton in the yard.

The boy was a little older and taller than Oren had been, of course, but such details were unimportant. All she saw was the child playing happily and her heart ached.

None of this really mattered, she thought. Titles. Feasts. Dresses.

They could all die any day.

She had spoken harsh words to Alistair as if they had all the words in the world to exchange.

But they didn’t. No one did.

As she watched the boy she noticed that another woman was also monitoring him from the shadows. Morrigan was leaning against a hitching post, still in her ballgown, doing nothing but quietly standing there with an uncharacteristically genuine smile on her face.

So that was him, Esme realized. Not just a boy— _the_ boy.

He looked and sounded so normal. He tossed the stick and shouted “good boy!” and rubbed Ser Bumperton’s belly when the hound returned his prize. He laughed at the dog’s blissful face and said, “Mother, can I have a hound? A mabari?”

“No, Kieran. Dogs are filthy creatures.”

“No they’re not. He’s not filthy.”

“He’s the filthiest one there is,” Morrigan said, fondly. “And spoiled to an alarming degree.”

“If I had a mabari I wouldn’t spoil him.”

“A likely story.”

“There is one dog about to give birth to a new a litter in the kennels,” said Kieran. “If I had one, I could raise it to be very clean and well-behaved.”

“I believe you would rather have a cat.”

“I don’t like cats. They always hiss at me.”

“Do they still?”

There was a quiet pause. “No,” the boy admitted, reluctantly. “Not the cats here. The cats here are nice.”

“Tis very little to do with location, Kieran.” A new tone of motherly concern entered her voice. “The dreams… they are still…?”

“No dreams, not anymore. You know that, Mother,” Kieran said, as if she was being foolish.

“Yes….”

“So, can I have a mabari?”

“The dogs here are not mine to give.”

“Whose are they?”

“The King’s, I would imagine.”

“Oh good. He will give me a dog.”

“No, he will not. I did not say you could have one.”

“But—”

“Do not go begging the King for a dog. I will not have you pestering him for things anymore.”

“He doesn’t mind!” Kieran protested. “He told me that if I wanted anything at all, I should just ask.”

“You have become more spoiled than that mangy old hound. I forbid it.”

Esme stepped out from the shadows, strolling across the yard. They turned to her, and Kieran said, “You’re the Hero of Ferelden!” with the same boyish excitement as any child who had recognized her on her journeys.

“I suppose I am,” Esme replied, stopping before them.

Morrigan enacted a deferential curtsey and said, “Remember what I told you,” to Kieran.

He hastily bowed, saying, “Good evening, Your Majesty,” and Esme wasn’t sure if Morrigan was trying to teach him proper court etiquette or taunting Esme. Probably a bit of both.

The proper honorific was, technically, Your Highness, not Your Majesty. That was reserved for a king or queen. Esme almost automatically corrected the boy, as had become her habit, but caught herself.

“What good manners,” she said, instead. “And you must be Kieran.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Please, you may call me Esme.”

He looked to his mother, waiting for permission, and Morrigan told him, “Do as the queen bids you, Kieran.”

“Yes, Mother. Yes, Esme,” he said, and bowed again for good measure.

“Run along, now, Kieran. Find the other children,” said Morrigan.

“Do I have to?” he asked.

“Do you not wish to? Is something wrong?”

“The other children don’t like me,” he said. “They call me Orlesian Witch Boy and won’t play with me.”

Morrigan looked furious for a moment, then composed herself, and said, “Ferelden children are all little savages. Do they hurt you? Throw things at you? You must tell me—”

“I am alright Mother,” he said, shaking his head warily, as if he regretted saying that much. “Can I just go to the kennels and pet the hounds instead?”

“No. You should be going to bed,” said Morrigan, as if only just now realizing how late it had gotten.

“Yes, Mother,” he said, sighing unhappily.

“And I mean bed. Do not sneak into the kitchen to steal some sweets.”

“I won’t, Mother.”

“I will come check on you shortly to make sure you are in bed,” she said in warning. “I do not want to see candlelight underneath your door.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“Well, go on then.” She brushed his hair, dark and shiny-straight like her own, back from his forehead and gave him a kiss on his temple. “Say goodnight to the Queen and then run along.”

“Goodnight, Esme.”

“Goodnight,” Esme said, then watched him jog across the garden yard towards a side door that lead into the private palace guest wings.

Ser Bumperton went bounding after him, and Morrigan called out, “Do not let that dog sleep in your bed!”

If Kieran heard, he pretended not to, not looking back, and Ser Bumperton glanced over his shoulder and gave an insolent wag before disappearing inside after the boy.

Morrigan turned back to Esme and said, “Well what are you smiling about?”

“It’s so strange…” Esme said. “I mean, I knew you were a mother. But your really are… a _mother_. It’s real. He’s real.”

Morrigan scoffed. “Yes, we are all very real. Did you think I was not capable of raising a child, because of my own unorthodox rearing? Tis not so very difficult to do. Especially once they can walk about on their own legs. Then you just put food in their hands and make sure they wash themselves every once in a while.”

“And bow to queens,” Esme said.

“Yes, and bow to queens.”

Esme found Morrigan’s flippant words unconvincing. She had seen the care in Morrigan’s eyes, the way she looked at the child unguarded when she thought they were alone. There was a fond undertone to all her orders and admonishments. Even as she forbade him a dog Esme knew, somehow, that when the time came Kieran would have a mabari puppy to call his own.

“He seems a sweet boy,” Esme observed. “Ordinary.” At a sharp look from Morrigan, she amended, “Not ordinary in a bad or boring way, but a good way. He’s surprisingly… normal.”

“He is normal. And ordinary,” said Morrigan, gazing in the direction he had gone. “He had a higher destiny, once. But not anymore.”

Esme frowned, curiously. “What do you mean?”

“Just what I say. He is a normal boy, with a normal future ahead of him. He lost his destiny.”

“How?”

“Flemeth.”

“Flemeth has returned?”

“I—I don’t know. Tis complicated. She was in the Fade, but she was real, as alive as your or I. She took it… the soul. She took it from him, and I do not know what she intends to do with it. All I know is that all I had planned for Kieran, prepared him for, is gone. Our path forward has changed.”

“Is that why you are here?” Esme asked.

Morrigan tilted her head, thoughtfully. “Yes. Partially. I… I was more surprised than anyone to realize I did not know everything. Flemeth’s appearance, what she did, what she said… none of it was what I expected. She gave me the power to fight Corypheus’ dragon. And I very nearly died. I… thought I was going to die. The dragon struck me down and I felt my soul leaving my body, drifting to the Fade. I slept for a very long time, awakening again in my human body in Skyhold. They had found me and brought me back, healed me, but… it was close. Very close.”

“You are a true hero, then.” Esme said.

Morrigan waved her hand dismissively. “I was but a pawn in Flemeth’s game. A game I still do not understand. We had a connection… I could call to her… but after I woke up in Skyhold, I couldn’t. It was as if she was gone.”

Esme frowned at her in obvious confusion, and she shook her head. “I will explain later.”

Later, always later.

“So you came here to warn me of Flemeth?” Esme asked. “Because she now has the soul of Urthemiel?”

“And Mythal.”

“Come again?”

“Tis a very long story,” Morrigan sighed. “We will talk of it later. Meanwhile, are you not supposed to be in the great hall? This feast is for you.”

“Please. You know it’s not for me. It’s for… oh I don’t know. The people? Alistair? I didn’t want a feast.”

“Have you become shy of attention? I recall you basking quite happily in the banquets and celebrations in your name following the Blight.”

“How could you recall that, when you disappeared immediately after the archdemon was slain?”

“Oh, I suppose I assumed.”

Esme narrowed her eyes suspiciously. Morrigan crossed her arms.

“There are dogs aplenty in Ferelden, always underfoot. No one would notice an extra dog, sitting off to the side, watching, as dogs do.”

Esme’s mouth fell open. “You stayed?” she asked. “You were watching me? For how long?”

“Just long enough to make sure you were alive, and well, and happy,” said Morrigan. “And you were all three of those things, so I did not stay long.”

“I had no idea.”

“Of course. That was the point of the disguise.”

“I wish you had trusted me enough to stay.”

“Twas not a matter of trust, but of purpose.”

“And now that purpose is gone? Because Urthemiel is… gone?”

“In a way.”

“But why come to Denerim? Are you not worried about, well…” Esme could not say it out loud. They seemed to be alone in the garden, but to speak plainly the truth of Kieran’s origins seemed foolish.

“I have a great deal of worry,” Morrigan admitted. “I thought I had kept him safe, but Flemeth could have done whatever she wanted to him. I was lucky that I… perhaps… perhaps I misjudged her. I don’t know. I thought she would possess his body if she could not have mine.”

“It sounds like she took what had possessed him away, instead.”

“Twas not like that,” Morrigan said quickly. “He was not an abomination. He never was that.”

Esme was silent. She was not so sure about that, but she didn’t want to argue the point with Morrigan. But she thought about Connor, again. He had looked normal and been able to be quiet and calm at times, even with the demon possessing him. Not all abominations became obviously twisted, horrific creatures. Not on the outside. The plain definition of an abomination was a mage who had been possessed by a demon or spirit… by that definition Wynne had been an abomination, though a kind, good-hearted, and brave one. In the eyes of the Chantry, Kieran had been born an abomination.

“What are you intentions for him, here?” she asked. “You mentioned wanting him to be educated in Ferelden’s customs and politics. Why?”

“I would like him to be well educated about all cultures,” Morrigan said. “To see many places and meet many people. Is that surprising? I want him to have the childhood I did not.”

“So Denerim is merely a stop on the tour,” said Esme. “I find that attitude oddly cavalier, considering.”

Morrigan raised one eyebrow. “I don’t quite follow your meaning. Does it displease you? I thought you would be relieved that I had no plans to overstay our welcome.”

“It’s just not as easy as you make it sound. This isn’t the court of Empress Celene.”

“Clearly.”

Esme took a step closer to her, so that she could speak in a low whisper, “I do not want you to hurt Alistair.”

Morrigan smirked. “Hurt him? How?”

“He’s never allowed himself to think of this boy as his son. He has abided by the agreement all this time, never trying to take Kieran away from you. Never seeking him out. But now you have put the boy right in front of him, so that he can see how real and human his son is. Do you really not know Alistair at all? He will love Kieran, if you stay here too long.”

“My dear Esme,” said Morrigan, also stepping closer, whispering directly into her ear, “that was the idea.”

Esme jerked back, surprised. “Why?”

When she looked into Morrigan’s eyes she saw sadness.

“When I was lying in the snow, dying, I thought… who will take care of Kieran now? He has never had anyone but me, not even in Orlais or Skyhold. I wanted it that way; I was so fiercely possessive of him. He was _my son,_ mine. No one else’s. Then I went to fight Corypheus’s dragon and I saw my own death before me. When I awoke, Kieran was asleep at the foot of my bed, curled up like a dog. And I thought, _what have I done?_ He’s all alone in this world.”

“And now? Are you planning on dying and leaving him here?”

“No. That’s not the plan,” Morrigan shook her head, smiling. “But this is a dangerous world, and I cannot shy away from whatever part I must play in it if the power of Urthemiel’s soul is used for ill. That is my responsibility. I preserved his soul in this world and though it no longer resides in Kieran, I cannot ignore that it is out there. And so… I would like for there to be other people in this world who love Kieran, who could care for him. He’s only a boy, now more than ever.”

“You said that you came here hoping to wait for me,” said Esme.

“Yes.” Morrigan drew her close again, her voice so low even Esme could barely hear her. “Alistair may be his father, but you are the one I would trust to take care of him, if it comes to that.”

“Morrigan… I… I’m no mother. I don’t know how, I never…”

“You have always had a soft spot for children,” Morrigan countered. “You refused to let that boy, Connor, die. Because of you he’s in the hall right now, toasting to your name, instead of rotting in the ground as an abomination.”

It was true. Connor Guerrin was with his father in Denerim. He had joined the mage rebellion when the Ferelden circle dissolved, but after the mages had ousted his uncle, Arl Teagen, from Redcliffe, he had become disgusted with their choices. Instead of going with them to join the Inquisition, he had gone to Denerim to be with Eamon. He had been one of the nobles who had chatted with Esme earlier in the night, before Goldanna’s appearance had made her flee the great hall.

Now, Esme said, “You saved Connor, not me.”

“You keep saying that, but we both know I didn’t give a whit what happened to that boy or his family. I would as soon as left all of Redcliffe to its fate. They meant nothing to me. But you cared. You cared about Connor, and about all the mages in the Circle, especially the children.”

“Yes. You thought we should let the Templars kill them, as punishment for allowing themselves to be corralled.”

“Would it please you to know that you changed me, Esme? You were an enigma to me, when we met. You seemed quite capable, but I could not understand why you cared so much about strangers. For a while I thought your kind heart was a weak and foolish shortcoming that would get us all killed, but… well, you proved me wrong. I decided twould not be so awful to be more like you.”

“Isn’t that how you ended up almost dying? Fighting Corypheus to save a world of strangers?”

She laughed. “I suppose it was.”

“You know I will not refuse to take care of Kieran. But I would rather you didn’t die and there was no need.”

“I would prefer that as well. But a mother must plan for the worst.”

Esme sighed, and leaned heavily against the hitching post. “I should go back inside,” she said. “But I don’t know what to say to Alistair. He declared I am to be crowned Queen in a month. He didn’t warn me.”

“I heard the speech,” said Morrigan. “Tis about time. Everyone knows that fool would not be King at all if it were not for you. Twas an insult for them to deny you the rightful title in the first place.”

“I appreciate that. But I didn’t come back to be patronized with a title.” Esme turned to her, then, and said, in a wounded tone, “You know, neither you or Alistair has even bothered to ask me if I completed my mission.”

“Your search for the Cure?”

“Yes.”

“Well? Did you?”

“No,” Esme sighed.

“Then why have you returned?” Morrigan cocked her head to the side curiously. “Not that I am protesting, of course. But tis not like you to accept defeat.”

“I had what I thought was a lead, that brought me back here. But I don’t know, now. It came to me in a dream, and now I think I may have simply let my homesickness manifest as the answer I wanted.”

“You told me that I didn’t have to do things alone,” said Morrigan. “I could have told you the same thing, if I had known you were going to disappear for three years looking for a cure all by yourself.”

Esme shrugged.

“Do you not have resources? People you can send to scour the world for answers, for you? Really, Esme, part of being Queen of Ferelden means not having to do all that scrounging in the dirt yourself.”

“I like getting things done myself.”

Morrigan smiled, looking up at the rising moon, and then tossed her bangs from her eyes and remarked, “If I was married to Alistair I suppose I would find an excuse to travel far afield, as well.”

“It’s not like that,” Esme said.

“Did he tell you that he was the one who invited me here?” said Morrigan. “So much for your claim that he was honoring our agreement of no contact.”

“I haven’t really had a chance to talk to him,” Esme admitted. “I think he’s avoiding me.”

“It was not long after you had left, and after I had been in Orlais for a year, I think. He sent me a letter saying that he had met a sister of mine in Antiva and learned some interesting things about Flemeth. I ignored the letter, of course. It seemed a pathetic ploy to get me to bring Kieran to him. I would not fall for it.”

“But here you are.”

“That was almost three years ago. I am a woman who takes risks, now.”

“Did he really meet your sister in Antiva?”

She shrugged. “Perhaps. Twas a fanciful story. But she is dead now so there is no way for me to seek her out for myself.”

“And Flemeth?”

A shadow passed over Morrigan’s face. “I don’t know. I think… I think she may be dead. For good.”

“That should make you happy.”

“It should.” Her face remained troubled. “But if she is dead, what of Urthemiel?”

Esme held up her hands, having nothing to offer. She didn’t even know the whole story of what had happened with Flemeth.

“Well, there is nothing but silence on that front, for now.” Morrigan pushed herself away from the rail. “I should go check on Kieran, he’s had enough time to get himself to bed. He loves to try hiding a candle to read after he should be asleep, I fear he will burn down the palace one day.”

Before she left, she hugged Esmeralda and wished her a good night and good luck, kissing her gently on the cheek, then lightly on the mouth.

Esme watched her leave, heading back towards the same door Kieran had gone through earlier. She touched her lips, and wondered if she should have said something more about her dream with Urthemiel, since Morrigan was so concerned about the missing Old God’s soul. But she had not. She had kept that to herself, still unsure what it all meant.

 

* * *

 

When she went back into the great hall, she saw that the feast was wrapping up. Alistair was gone from his seat on the dais, and Eamon told her that the King had retired for the night.

Eamon eyed her for a moment, then shook his head. “I had hoped you would not return,” he said, with surprising frankness. “I was working to arrange a new marriage for Alistair; a young noblewoman from Gwaren. I was going to try to convince him to set you aside. The Chantry allows divorce on grounds of abandonment or presumed death after three years.”

Esme smiled at him. Somehow, hearing him say these things so openly made her downright giddy. She and Eamon had danced around each other so politely for years. He looked weary, defeated, and yet wholly unsurprised that she had swooped in at the last hour and thwarted his plans to have her cast aside.

Then her smile faded. He had never remarried after his own wife’s death, a death she had facilitated. She put a hand on his arm. “Goodnight, Chancellor,” she said, as if his admission had gone completely unheard.

With Alistair gone and the rest of the guests slowly trickling away, there was no reason for her to remain in the hall, so she took her leave and went to her own chambers.

She removed the pieced together gown and put on a dressing gown over her nightshift. Her dressing gown was blue and gold, Cousland colors, and had been a present from Alistair. She sat at the vanity, brushing her hair out and wondering if she looked as weary and old as Eamon did, or if it was just her imagination.

Her chambers were connected to Alistair’s by a long, private hallway that was only for the king and his consort’s use. She thought about walking down that hallway, and she thought about not doing that, and she stared long into the mirror as if waiting for her reflection to turn on its own and tell her what to do.

Finally, she roused herself and took a candle to the door which led to the hallway. But she hadn’t needed to. Someone had already lit the candles in the hall.

She stood outside his door for a long time before knocking. She was the only person who could be knocking at that door, so she half feared he would pretend not to hear. But there was a rustling from within, and then the door opened.

He looked at her for a moment, taking in the dressing gown, her unbound hair, face washed of the makeup she worn to the feast. He stepped aside to let her pass into the room, saying, “Time for that private chat, is it.”

She looked around the room. It was much as she remembered it, with the fire crackling in the hearth, two chairs and a small round table nearby slightly off to the side. The rug before the fireplace where Ser Bumperton would often lay was empty. Her eyes were drawn to the centerpiece of the room—the great four-postered, canopy covered bed big enough for five people at a time, with a large golden Theirin crest embroidered on the heavy coverlet. She had always felt a bit lost in that sea of a royal bed, but the thought of Alistair sleeping alone in it night after night for three years was even sadder. There was a decanter of wine and a half emptied goblet on the table.

“I came to apologize,” she said. “For snapping at you earlier.”

“You don’t need to do that. I was stupid.”

“I know what you were trying to do,” she said, turning away from the table to face him. “I was insulted by it. I didn’t come back here only looking to be Queen.”

“I managed to figure that out.”

“I know you meant well. I’m sorry for losing my temper.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” he said, wearily, pained by her entire attempt at reconciliation.

“Please just accept my apology, Alistair.”

“What happened was my fault. I didn’t read the situation correctly.”

“Please.”

He sighed. “You are forgiven.”

“Good.” They were both silent for a moment, just standing at an awkward distance, staring at each other. “Well, that was all I wanted to say.”

“Is it?” He looked surprised, arching an eyebrow.

“I have other things to tell you, but it can wait. It’s very late.”

He nodded. Then he lifted his head slightly, challenging, and said, “I went looking for you, after you left the hall. I saw you in the garden whispering with Morrigan.”

“We were talking about Kieran.”

That took a little bit of the jealousy out of him. “Ah,” he said, seeming half ashamed now. “Did you meet him?”

“Yes. He’s a… good seeming sort of boy. Very normal.”

“He’s a good lad,” Alistair said, and the fondness was unmistakable. Esme knew she had been right, earlier, about the inevitable feelings he would develop for his son. He was halfway to loving him, now, if not already there.

“Not the demon spawn you worried he might be,” Esme said with a smile.

“No. Not at all. I had to compliment Morrigan on what a well behaved boy he is, which made her insufferably smug. But he is polite, mannered… quiet. Nothing like me at that age… I was throwing fits about being sent to the Chantry when I was ten. But I’ve never heard him complain about… anything.”

“He likes dogs. He’s stolen Ser Bumperton from me already.”

He chuckled. “I’m sure you’ll get him back.” Then he said, seriously, “I am sorry I didn’t tell you they were here. I didn’t expect you to run across them tonight, but that was foolish. I should have told you everything, right away.”

“It’s alright. I knew they were here. Leliana told me.”

“Ah. Leliana. Of course. How is she?”

“Very well. She seems to be thriving with the Inquisition.”

“That’s good, I suppose.”

They lapsed into silence again. There was only a few feet of space between them, but three years of distance.

She took a step towards him, and then another, until she was close enough to put her hands on his chest and tilt her face toward his in an invitation, a request, for a kiss.

“Esme,” he said softly, “you don’t… you don’t have to do this.”

“I want to. Don’t you?”

“More than anything, but—”

She slid her arms up around his neck and pulled his head down to kiss him, insisting on it, and he responded by wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her into a tight embrace, meeting her lips like a parched man thirsting for water.

Esme let go of her fear that he could not possibly want her anymore after all these years, this abandonment, releasing that insecurity with the knowledge of his obvious desire for her. They stood there, tightly pressed together, his hands roaming around her backside as he bruised her lips with passionate kisses.

Eventually they made their way over to the bed, falling onto the Theirin crest in a breathless tangle of limbs and half removed clothing. Alistair untied the sash on her dressing down as she lay on her back, and then knelt over her and said, “I’m going to ravish you now, wife,” as he tugged off his own breeches.

She stretched her arms up over her head and smiled wickedly. “It’s about damn time,” she said.

“You wanted me to pull you down off your horse and despoil you in the middle of the West Road?” he asked, pulling his shirt up over his head.

“Oh, yes. Why didn’t you?” she said, arching her hips towards him provocatively.

He just laughed, and as his shirt cleared his head she saw an amulet on a long silver chain tug free of the fabric and flop against his bare chest. She recognize that amulet.

He grabbed her legs and pulled her towards him, and his eager cock, and Esme shut her eyes and threw her head back against the bed as her husband entered her for the first time in a very long time.

The last time had been the night before she left. Though he had been unhappy with the whole idea of her leaving she had coaxed and cajoled him with promises of returning soon, of missing him, of wanting him to give her a night to remember. He had fucked her roughly that night, as if channeling all his frustration with her into that final carnal farewell. She had wanted him to, encouraging him with agonized whimpers and cries of “harder” and “punish me” which resulted in him hardly being able to meet her eye after they had finished. Never in seven years of being together had they coupled with such vitriol, and if it had reminded him at all of their night with Morrigan, he did not say. Esme had left the next morning, riding gingerly on her saddle, with one last backwards glance before she disappeared into the west for three long years.

Now, as he “ravished” and “despoiled” her—words that made her think he’d taken to reading Varric Tethras novels in her absence—she was distracted by the steady _pat pat pat_ sound of the amulet against his chest.

She pulled herself up by his arms, till she sat in his lap with her hands on his shoulders. She kissed him quickly then hooked a finger around the silver chain and tugged it over his head. It caught on his ear and he just shook his head impatiently, freeing the chain, and she flung it over her shoulder to land somewhere unknown.

She didn’t think of it again, until much later, when she was sprawled out on the bed, her legs feeling boneless and jellied and a contented warmth spreading from her center. She turned her head to where she had thrown the amulet, and saw it laying on the bed, resting on the pooled up chain. She reached out carefully towards it, having to stretch a little, but not so much that she dislodged Alistair, who was using her belly as a pillow. He was equally as spent, though he lazily caressed her leg in long, slow strokes, as if thinking about having her again once he recovered.

She just barely was able to pull the amulet closer with the tips of her fingers, and then she had it, bringing it back to hold above her face and inspect it.

It was exactly what she had thought it was: the cracked, broken-and-repaired silver amulet bearing Andraste’s flame which she had found while snooping around in Arl Eamon’s study at Redcliffe, a long time ago.

It had been the first time they visited the castle, when Connor was possessed. She had held onto it for a while after they left, because she had been embarrassed to show proof that she had been rifling through the Arl’s things, especially with the way Alistair had blown up at her about the Arlessa’s death shortly after they had left the castle.

She had grabbed it for him, of course. When she had seen it she thought immediately of the story he had shared with her, about how he’d had only one thing in the world of his dead mother’s, an amulet he had foolishly thrown against a wall and broken in anger, during an argument with Eamon over being sent away to the Chantry.

“You still wear this,” she said, now, turning it over in her hands. “Still” was perhaps not the right word, though. She didn’t remember him wearing it much at the palace, instead keeping it in a safe place in his chambers.

He shifted a little to look at what she was talking about. “Oh,” he said. “Yes. I… it reminds me more of you, these days.”

“Why?”

“Do you remember finding that? And giving it to me?”

“Yes,” she said.

When she had finally worked up the courage to present it to him, he hadn’t even commented on the fact that she’d filched it from the Arl’s study, instead being first disbelieving and then overcome with emotion at the fact that she had remembered the story and thought of him at all.

“It was the first time I thought you might care for me.”

She remembered that, too. She had told him outright that he was special to her, with her heart thumping, because though she had dropped hints about it before, those could be easily brushed off as harmless, meaningless flirtation. This was far more earnest, as obvious a declaration of love as she could dare at the time.

Now, she wondered if this amulet had ever truly belonged to Alistair’s mother. The secret knowledge she’d carried from Skyhold weighed on her, and though she just wanted to ignore the prick of her conscience, she knew that she had to tell him.

The longer she kept such a secret to herself, the worse it would be to tell him, because he would realize that she had been harboring that knowledge for days or weeks or months and her silence in all that time would be tantamount to a lie.

The reconciliation they had started towards was a fragile one, and that could break them, yet. Their marriage, she thought, was a lot like this amulet. Broken and yet still holding together, despite it all.

“Are you sure this belonged to your mother?” she asked, feeling cowardly enough to try to come at the topic from a sideways angle.

He lifted his head, surprised that she would be wondering such a thing after all these years of taking it as fact. “That’s what Eamon said,” he told her. “I don’t know why he would lie.”

She doubted Eamon knew Fiona’s secret. Sending this amulet to Redcliffe with an infant Alistair, along with a story about a dead serving girl mother, had likely been Maric’s doing.

“I just can’t picture her wearing a Chantry amulet,” said Esme.

Alistair sat up, frowning. “Why not? Goldanna said she was very devout. That she always made time to visit the Chantry on holy days.”

As contentious as his relationship with his “sister” was, the fact that he had facilitated and was paying for her entire lifestyle, had gotten Goldanna to at least share her memories of their mother with Alistair over the years. Esme had been happy that he had that much, after growing up with nothing more than the bare facts about her. Now it filled her with dread, because he had taken such comfort in his idea of the woman his mother had been, and she was about to disabuse him of any and all notions he had come to cherish.

Fiona would say not to do it. That the comforting lie was better than the truth.

But Esme decided to do it anyway. The truth, she thought, was always best.

She sighed and sat up, reaching for her discarded dressing gown. This was the sort of conversation she didn’t want to have naked.

“Is something the matter?” he asked nervously.

“I have to tell you something,” she said. “But I need a drink, first.”

She slid off the bed and went to pour herself some wine from the decanter near the fire. Alistair got up and put on his own robe. “I thought we could save talking until the morning,” he said.

She nodded. The wine was warm and flat, too dry for her tastes, but she downed a gobletful in several long gulps anyway.

“Though now I may not sleep,” he said, watching her.

“That’s why I think I should tell you now. It’s something you need to know.”

“Then out with it, before you kill me with all this sighing and ominous hinting,” he said.

“I met with Grand Enchanter Fiona while I was at Skyhold,” Esme said. She sat down in one of the chairs by the fire, and motioned for him to take the other.

His face went sour. “Ugh, that woman,” he said. “I don’t want to hear her name ever again, if I can help it. I suppose you know all about what she did to the Hinterlands.”

“I do.”

“I wish you had been here,” he said, sitting down heavily. “I was lost without you. And I mean that very sincerely, Esme, it’s not just the whinings of a lonely husband. I feel like I made all the wrong decisions.”

“There were hard decisions to be made.”

“I thought that opening Redcliffe to the rebel mages was the right thing to do. Offering them sanctuary only seem right, after so many of our people fled to Kirkwall during the Blight, and with everything that happened there because of it… well. I thought that siding with the mages was something you would want me to do, though I didn’t know for sure. I ignored everyone who told me it would be a disaster, but they were right. It was a mess. People died, my people… died. Lots of them. The region still hasn’t recovered.”

He hid his face in his hand, remembering the ordeals of the past few years.

“I know.” She had rode through the area on her way home and seen the devastation the Mage-Templar War had wrought.

“So,” he dropped his hand from his face and squared his shoulders. “Tell me, what did she have to say which is bound to upset me? I am absolutely not allowing her back into Ferelden, if that’s what she wants. I already told her that she should be glad to have the Inquisition to take her and her rebellion in, because I’m done with them.”

“It had nothing to do with that,” Esme said. “We mostly discussed my search for a cure to the Calling.”

He shifted. “Oh. You haven’t told me what you found out, yet.”

“I haven’t found a cure,” she admitted, almost relieved to be derailed from talk of Fiona, though this was another difficult conversation in the making.

“I see,” he said softly, frowning. “I had thought… you said you wouldn’t come back until you had answers. Your return… I just assumed, you had been successful.”

She shook her head.

“Have you… have you given up?” He looked suddenly quite sad. “Or is this just a visit? Before you leave again?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Oh Maker, I’m a fool,” he groaned. “I thought… I thought it was over. I thought you were done with all that.”

“That’s not important right now.”

“It’s the only thing that’s important. This…” he made a vague motion between the two of them, then over to the bed, “I can’t take this if you’re going to disappear again, I can’t, I…”

“I didn’t say I was leaving,” she interrupted. She set the drained goblet down and went over to him, sitting on his lap and wrapping her arms around his neck. “I’m not leaving. Not if you want me to stay.”

“ _If_ I want you to stay,” he echoed, with a strained laugh. “All I’ve _ever_ wanted is for you to stay.”

“Then I’ll stay.” She gave him a kiss and stood up, tugging on his hand to pull him up with her. “We should go to bed. You’re tired. I’m tired. We’ll talk more in the morning.”

“No,” he said, resisting her pull. “Tell me what you need to say.”

She sighed. “I do not think that Goldanna’s mother is your mother, after all,” she said.

“What?” he said, shocked. “What does that mean? Why?”

“I think that Grand Enchanter Fiona is your mother.”

He laughed. “What? No. That’s… no. How would she even… no. No. Did she _tell_ you that? Andraste’s fire what is that woman playing at? Esme, you can’t actually fall for that.”

“Thirty years ago she traveled into the Deep Roads with your father, and Duncan, and others. This was when King Maric agreed to let the Wardens back into Ferelden. Did Duncan ever tell you anything about that?”

He looked at her helplessly, as if he found her to be completely insane, but he shook his head after a moment, finally just processing her question. “A little, I suppose. I knew that he had met my father, but he didn’t talk about it much.”

“Duncan and Fiona were good friends. I’d wager he knew that she was your mother,” said Esme. “That’s why he was so adamant about recruiting you, taking you away from the Chantry.”

“Well how convenient that Duncan is dead and can’t confirm that. Also, just because Fiona knew my father doesn’t mean she’s my mother. I’m sure my father knew lots of women… and not in _that_ sense.”

“She admitted it. She didn’t tell me that she was your mother, but she admitted it, when I confronted her about it.”

“Oh that’s smart. Managed to make you think it was your idea, that’s a good one. Crafty. Don’t be a fool, my love. This is some… Tevinter plot. Yes. Think about it. Fiona is an elf… a mage… an _Orlesian._ You know that if anyone seriously thought my mother was any of those things, much less all of them, I’d be run out of Denerim at swordpoint, if they didn’t just tie me to a horse and let it drag me out. That woman has been all wound up with the Venatori this whole time and this is her revenge on me for kicking her out of Redcliffe.”

Esme shook her head. It was almost enough to make her doubt, but she had been there, looking into Fiona’s eyes, and he had not.

“She didn’t seek me out or plant hints. I figured it out on my own. She was just answering my questions about how she was cured of the taint.”

“And how was she cured of the taint?”

“It’s inconclusive. But… I think… _you_ cured her of the taint.” Esme winced even as she said it.

“Oh Maker,” he said. “No. I refuse to believe this. I don’t even want you to talk about it anymore. It’s ridiculous.”

“Alistair, please, calm down.”

“No. Listen to yourself, Esme. You’re telling me that this whole time, my mother was… Fiona. The same Fiona who incited the mage rebellion, then took advantage of my hospitality to wage a war in the Hinterlands, run my uncle out of Redcliffe castle, and install a mad Tevinter magister bent on helping a demonic overlord take over Thedas, in his place… _That_ Fiona, has been my mother, all along. That’s what you’re saying.”

“Yes.”

“Well, you’re right about one thing. We’re both very tired, and we should probably go to bed. I think we’re done talking about this.”

“I’m sorry. I wish I could have told you in a better way… but I—”

“It’s not _how_ you told me, it’s the sheer ludicrousness of the entire thing. Though, if you had told me in order to warn me that Fiona was spreading this as some mad rumor, I wouldn’t be as upset right now, I suppose. But the fact that you actually believe it yourself, I just… no.”

He stood up.

“I think I need to be alone.”

“Alistair…”

“I need time to think about this.”

“Please don’t send me away.”

“Why would you tell me this? What could possibly be gained from something like this?”

“The truth,” she said, fighting back tears. “A mother who is alive. Who loves you.”

“Loves me? If she is my mother—and she is _not_ —then she clearly doesn’t love me. If she’s my mother that means she abandoned me and let me think she was dead, and never once tried to see me, or take care of me, or do the right thing by me. In fact she made herself my worst enemy.”

Esme lowered her head, hiding the tears that she could not hold back. Fiona was right, she should not have said anything to him. Knowing this would destroy him, and if he refused to accept it as truth, it might destroy them for her to have tried to convince him of something he found so abhorrent.

She felt Alistair put his arms around her, and he said, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be shouting at you. Don’t believe this madwoman’s story, though. Please. Nothing good can come of it.”

She nodded against his shoulder, though she would not deny her belief in words. She had seen truth in Fiona’s eyes and she could not disavow it.

“I can see why you would want to believe this,” he said, the anger gone out of his voice, just a weary sadness in its place. “Especially if it holds some clue to curing the taint. But it’s a false hope.” He rubbed her back, apologetically.

She uncurled her palm, looking at the amulet of Andraste, which she still clutched in her hand. She let it fall through her fingers, dangling on its chain, and saw that it had left an imprint of the circle of flame in her flesh.

“I won’t send you away. Never,” he said, squeezing her a little before letting her go. “But just come to bed and… let’s not talk about this anymore.”

She just nodded again, still unable to bring herself to say the words accepting his denial. Instead, she gently lowered the chain around his neck. The mother who had owned that amulet was the mother he wanted. Human, dead, and sanctified in the memories he’d never had.


	8. Witches

* * *

_9:42 Dragon_

* * *

 

 

Esme stood on the upper landing of the royal library and gazed down into the main room. There were three levels, one large circular area at the bottom and two open edged balconies with staircases that spiraled along the walls, leading upwards to a domed ceiling. The dome was frescoed with scenes of Alamarri warriors and packs of fierce mabari doing battle with dragons in ancient forests.

She allowed herself a soft smile. Alistair was seated down on the lower level at a small side table, playing Wicked Grace with Kieran. The cards were spread out before them in haphazard piles and they held their hands close.

Kieran thought long and hard over every turn. Each time he would carefully tilt his cards towards his lap, where a small mabari puppy lay curled up. The puppy would lift its head, tilt it thoughtfully to one side, and then some sort of silent communication would pass between boy and dog before Kieran made his play.

“This library is abysmal,” said Morrigan, walking up to Esme with a dusty tome in her hands. “They say the royal library is the oldest in Ferelden; older than the Circle by far. But tis nothing here you couldn’t find at any rare book shop in Val Royeaux.”

“You used to scoff at mages who wasted all their days in tower libraries reading books,” Esme remarked, still watching the card game below.

“Then allow me to scoff at myself,” Morrigan said. “And at this library.”

Esme’s smile turned into a smirk. Then she turned to look at the book Morrigan had found.

She placed it on a table and waved away the dust that plumed in the air. The servants dusted the spines of the books regularly, especially the ones on the lower levels, but apparently in the upper recesses of the library where readers rarely ventured, the dark depths of the shelves were like forgotten tombs.

The script on the book was barely legible, its gilt having worn off many years ago. But she could still make out the title: _Myth of the Great Dragon._

“Oh,” she said, taking more of an interest. “You found something useful.”

“I paged through this book once,” Morrigan said, dismissively. “Little more than a tome of fairy tales. But, I thought it might warrant a second look.”

Since Esme’s return to Denerim, she had taken time to more fully exchange stories and compare notes with Alistair and Morrigan about what had been happening in her absence.

Most interesting was Alistair’s search for the missing King Maric a couple of years ago.

The whole story of his excursion abroad was quite the yarn. He had gone to Antiva City on the information that King Maric might still be alive and imprisoned by the Antivan Crows. His search had then led into the Tellari Swamps and all the way to the island of Seheron, north of the Tevinter Imperium.

At first she’d half suspected that he had made it all up because he felt left out, bored and alone, abandoned in Denerim. And then she thought, well, it was just like him to run off for a few months, leaving Eamon in charge of Ferelden, because Esme had gone away and why couldn’t he? There was no one to force him to stay.

But that was, perhaps, unfair. How could she judge him when she had disappeared, leaving behind broken promises and the assumption that all would be forgiven when she returned successful? And here she was, returned, but unsuccessful, and still forgiven despite it all.

The most valuable thing to be learned from his travels, Esme thought, was that according to the Antivan witch, Yavana, the Great Dragons were real.

Because of the actions of King Calenhad long ago, the Theirin descendants had a magical connection to the Great Dragons and their blood could be used to awaken the beasts. Because of this, Maric had made a deal with Flemeth long ago. She had helped him to retake Ferelden from the Orlesians. In return, he had been meant to go north to the swamps and give himself over to Yavana once his heir was old enough to take the throne. This he had done when Cailan was twenty, and Alistair fifteen, the year he had disappeared.

Maric had been captured by a Tevinter magister, who wanted Maric’s blood for his own plot to restore the glory of Tevinter and re-conquer the world with the remaining Great Dragons.

Alistair had learned all of this information from and through Yavana, and had used it to finally track down Maric, who had indeed been held captive for all those years in Tevinter.

It was a difficult subject to discuss with Alistair. He didn’t want to dwell on the fact that he had killed Maric when he destroyed the magrellen—a blood-magic-powered apparatus that had held his father in a captive state. Maric’s mind and spirit had been trapped in a Fade dream for years, and though he was freed from it when it was destroyed, without it to sustain and feed off of him in tandem, he died.

It made her regret dropping the Fiona issue on Alistair, all the more. She hadn’t known then that he’d found and lost his father all in the time she’d been away. She wished now that she had waited longer to relieve herself of Fiona’s secret. Or perhaps it was for the best that she hadn’t waited, for she might not have had the courage to do it, after all, and gone on carrying it like a lie forever.

It was too late to go back and undo that decision, now.

As far as Great Dragons were concerned, Alistair had no desire to go searching for them or rouse them, even if he could somehow control them with the power that remained in Calenhad’s bloodline. And now there could be no more information to get out of Yavana, because Alistair had killed her. She was quite literally another dead lead.

It was very frustrating, for Esme, to think that she had been away on her search, and he had gone off on his own, and they could have been more successful had they been together, not apart. She wished she had been there to meet Yavana. She felt that she could have learned something important that was now lost, because Alistair couldn’t see past his need for vengeance. He called it “justice,” because Flemeth and Yavana were ultimately responsible for his father’s disappearance and death, despite the Tevinter being the one who had trapped him all those years. They had lured Maric to Antiva to pay off a blood debt, so he held them responsible for everything that had gone wrong in Ferelden after Maric was gone.

The Blight would still have happened, for that had been in motion long before Maric abandoned his throne. But other things might have been different, if only Maric hadn’t made a deal with Flemeth which required such a sacrifice to repay.

The disaster at Ostagar, whether it was due to Loghain’s betrayal or Cailan’s foolish bravado, would never have happened with Maric as King. For whatever reason, Alistair seemed convinced of that.

He hadn’t tried to claim that killing Yavana was self-defense. The witch had not been trying to kill him, but she had urged him to let her use his blood in a ritual, and he had refused her with a sword through the heart.

Once Alistair decided that the blame for Ostagar could be laid at the feet of others besides Loghain, there was no room for mercy, no matter how pragmatic. He had killed Loghain, he had killed Yavana, he had set out to kill the Tevinter Magister, and If he could have killed Flemeth a second time, he would have.

Esme asked him if he had sent that invitation to Morrigan in Orlais upon his return to Ferelden, with any intention of harming her should she accept. It was a hard question to ask, for she was not sure if she truly wanted to know the answer.

He avoided answering the question outright. That was answer enough.

But it would have to do.

Morrigan claimed not to have any knowledge of Flemeth’s involvement with Maric, or the role she had played in his disappearance and imprisonment.

For whatever reason, he chose to believe her.

Perhaps he had a soft spot for her, still.

It helped that Maric’s original deal with Flemeth had happened a full decade before Morrigan had even been born. She also claimed that she hadn’t known about Yavana’s existence, and didn’t know now whether or not to believe that the Antivan witch was truly an older sister. She still didn’t even know if she was Flemeth’s daughter by blood, or if she was simply a magic-touched child Flemeth had kidnapped or rescued from abandonment.

If she was mad at Alistair for killing Yavana, she didn’t show it.

In fact, she seemed quite unconcerned with the murder of her sister, and was not overly worried that Alistair might one day decide she needed to die for her association with the witches he now held responsible for his father’s death.

No—more than that, Morrigan seemed downright _pleased_ that Alistair had taken Yavana out of this world.

“Why wouldn’t I be happy?” Morrigan said, when Esme asked about it. “This woman, this associate of Flemeth, was eager to use Alistair’s blood because he is a descendant of King Calenhad. And since she apparently _knew_ of my existence… then she likely knew what plan Flemeth had concocted for me during the Blight. Tis not a trail I want followed.”

Esme understood, then, why she was so pleased.

Kieran was the last in the line of the descendants of King Calenhad, and Flemeth knew this. Yavana would likely know it, too. It had been Flemeth who singled out Alistair (and Esme, lucky by association, it would seem) to be saved from Ostagar. She had been cagey about her reasons, back then, but now Esme was sure she’d wanted to preserve Calenhad’s bloodline and had not wanted both of King Maric’s sons to die that day.

Esme wondered now how different things would be if Flemeth had chosen to save Cailan instead. Though perhaps “chosen” was not the right word. Cailain had been in the thick of the fighting and had been brutally slaughtered. She and Alistair had been away from the main fight, lighting the signal beacon, and that had made Alistair the only son of Maric which Flemeth _could_ save.

Morrigan said that Flemeth had transformed into her dragon shape to pluck Alistair and Esme’s unconscious bodies from the tower at Ostagar, one nearly-dead-junior-Grey Warden in each monstrous set of talons. By the time she arrived, the “battle” was a slaughter and barely anyone who saw her as a dragon lived to tell about it. Anyone who did live to talk about the battle, and who remembered the dragon, just assumed they had been looking upon Urthemiel.

The feat of turning into a dragon was not one that just any shapeshifter could attain. It took far more magic than imitating a bear, or wolf, or spider. Morrigan herself had never been able to do it until Flemeth gave her a share of her power to use against Corypheus’ dragon, and after her defeat and near death experience, she had not attempted it a second time. She doubted that she could.

Now, Morrigan picked up the book on Great Dragons she had unearthed, and carried it down the winding steps to the floor level. Esme followed behind her until they stood over the card players.

Alistair might have turned away from the idea of finding the Great Dragon, but Esme could not shake the conviction that Urthemiel had been telling her a truth in her dream. She needed that Great Dragon’s blood to cure the Grey Warden taint and avoid the Calling. Alistair needed it too—he may have some of the magic in him already, enough to perhaps live a little longer than most Grey Wardens. But it wasn’t going to save him forever. No, she was sure now that they needed the pure, unadulterated blood of the Great Dragons, not just whatever strain had been passed down through the generations of Theirins who followed King Calenhad.

“Tis time to bid the King good day, Kieran,” said Morrigan, giving her son and his mabari a stern look. “You have your studies to attend to and tis getting late.”

“But I’m about to win, Mother,” said Kieran, and the puppy whined.

Morrigan leaned over and glanced at Alistair’s hand. “No,” she said, “you’re not. Run along. You’ve wasted enough of the day on cards as is.”

“Yes, Mother.” Kieran laid down his cards and stood up, depositing the puppy on the ground. Then he very politely bid farewell to both Esme and Alistair before leaving, the small dog close at his heels.

“I would have let him win,” said Alistair after he had gone. He gathered up the Wicked Grace cards, raising his eyebrow at the hand Kieran had set aside.

“He shouldn’t be coddled,” said Morrigan. “If he cannot win on his own merits then you do him no favors by giving him a false sense of accomplishment.”

“Yes, however will he learn to become a notorious gambler?” Esme remarked, and Alistair just smirked as he shuffled the cards together.

“We none of us know where our lives will lead us,” Morrigan said, unamused. “But more importantly I do not want him to be spoiled, like those useless little noble children that get paraded through these halls by their insufferable parents every day.”

Alistair’s smirk turned into a full fledged smile, and he suggested, “Someone should turn them all into toads.”

“Someone may yet, if they do not learn to keep their rude comments to themselves,” she said, then shook her head. “But you are merely taunting me.”

“Not really. I wouldn’t mind more toads and less nobles around here.”

Even after nearly eleven years, Alistair still thought of himself as a commoner, who had somehow ended up King, as if by accident, and was constantly bemused or irritated by the posturing of the noble classes that surrounded him daily.

“They all seek to entice the poor childless king and queen into taking their little lords and ladies as surrogates,” Esme announced what she found to be obvious but which no one had come right out and said, yet. She looked at Morrigan meaningfully. “They are very jealous of you. How _has_ she managed to get so close to the throne? Why _does_ her son play cards with the King?”

“I am aware,” said Morrigan. “Their gossip is grating.”

“It always is. Half the court already calls me a dirty mage sympathizer,” said Alistair. “Now they are saying you’ve taken control of my mind, probably.”

Morrigan laughed, a harsh, incredulous sound. “You, being called a dirty mage sympathizer? I never thought I’d live to see the day.”

“Letting rebel mages take over Redcliffe will do that to one’s reputation,” he said, his smile disappearing into regret.

“That was foolish. Not even I would have done that.”

“What’s done is done,” Esme said, stepping in before they started arguing in earnest. “The mages are with your old friends the Inquisition now, at any rate, and no longer our problem.”

“Are you going to attend the ceremony for the new Divine in Val Royeaux?” Morrigan asked, suddenly reminded of the upcoming deification of Cassandra Pentaghast, a core founding member of the Inquisition.

“Can we avoid it?” said Alistair, looking to Esme with a pained expression. Then he said to Morrigan, “Why, do you want to come with us?”

“I hardly think it would be wise,” said Morrigan, “Twill only give the court more reason to be jealous and to gossip. I do not want so much attention on Kieran.”

“What are you going to do if you stay here?” Esme asked. She had been counting on Morrigan traveling to Val Royeaux with them, as she preferred her company over any of the ladies-in-waiting or other noblewomen who would want to join their entourage.

“There is much to do. I told you that I would help continue your search for a Cure,” said Morrigan, hefting the book on great dragons to illustrate her intentions. Apparently she thought that having to read a book was excuse enough to stay behind.

“You said yourself that you could find better books in Val Royeaux,” Esme pointed out.

“I have considered that perhaps I should make a journey to Antiva,” said Morrigan, changing her tack. “I thought to follow up on this story of Alistair’s about Yavana. She may be dead but I have a thought to go to this place in the Tellari swamp where she kept her lair, to investigate.”

“I see.” Esme made little effort to hide her disappointment.

Alistair rocked back in his chair, looking back and forth between them, then said, “You should leave all that alone. Don’t go chasing after the great dragons… nothing good can come of it. After what happened to my father… I just don’t think you should be messing around with it.”

“But it could be the key to curing us,” said Esme. “And ignoring it won’t make it go away.”

“I do hope they stay hidden,” he said, stubbornly. “Maybe it’s some sort of cure, but even if it is, it’s not worth it. You didn’t see what I saw… what people are willing to do to obtain great dragon blood, the things mages will do if they get their hands on it.”

“I’ve seen plenty enough that I can imagine it just fine.”

“Then you should understand that stirring up that kind of trouble is not the answer.”

“Esme is right,” Morrigan insisted. “Pretending that this kind of power does not exist doesn’t make it go away or stay hidden. But if you want to find yourself, or Kieran, hung up on a magrellen, then by all means hide your head in the sand and pray to Andraste instead of harnessing the power of your own blood.”

“Is this about travelling to Antiva and looking for dragons, or is there another ritual you’re about to try to talk me into? Some eldritch horror you feel the need to summon?”

She sniffed and looked away with a toss of her fringe. “I have no need of you.”

“Of course not. You have Kieran. If you told him to hold out his wrists he’d just say ‘Yes, Mother’ and let you empty his veins.”

“How dare you,” she hissed, her face flushing in anger.

For a moment Esme thought Morrigan was going to slam the heavy book over his head. But then Alistair looked down and said, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. It was wrong of me.”

It was an unexpectedly sincere apology, and it caught Morrigan off guard. Her hands twitched around the book, and the glint of anger did not entirely leave her eyes, but she just said, “I am not Flemeth. Or Yavana.”

“I know,” he said, looking back up.”But Antiva is still a dead end. The place has already been cleared out, since I was there. Not even the dragons are there anymore.”

Morrigan narrowed her eyes in doubt. “You went back to check, yourself?”

“No, but people I know…”

“The pirate whore and that ridiculous dwarf?” she said, disdainfully. “I’m thrilled to know that they likely looted and sold off every useful bit of information I might have found, to any disreputable blood mage with coin to spare.”

“That’s Admiral Isabela to you,” he said. He let the chair clank back to the floor, then stood up. “It doesn’t matter now. It’s been years. There’s nothing there. I think you should come to Val Royeaux with us, instead.”

She raised both eyebrows, looking at him with mocking surprise. “Oh, you do? Is this a kingly command?”

“Morrigan,” said Esme, softly.

“It’s a request,” Alistair said. “Because Esme so clearly wants you to come.”

“Does she?” asked Morrigan, looking to her, her surprise seeming almost genuine this time.

“Of course,” said Esme, eager to change the subject from blood magic and great dragons. “I’ll get eaten alive in the Orlesian court without you.”

“You have been to Orlais by yourself, before.”

“Incognito,” said Esme. “Not the same at all. The last time I had to attend the crowning of a new Divine, as Princess Consort… well it was awful. I hated it.”

That had been eight years ago, when Revered Mother Dorothea had become Divine Justinia V. It was strange to think back on it. It had been a controversial appointment, but still, Esme never would have imagined that Dorothea’s tenure as Divine would end so soon, and in such a cataclysmic manner. She hoped Cassandra Pentaghast had better luck.

“Do you think my presence will make this experience any better?” Morrigan asked.

“You understand the Orlesians better than I do.”

Morrigan tilted her head with a bemused smile “I wouldn’t say that. I was unpopular as an advisor to Celene. People are the same in Orlais and Ferelden: a court mage is regarded with distrust, and there are plenty of jealous nobles to claim that dark magic is at play when they cannot garner as much favor as they wish.”

“Just say you’ll come, and make her happy,” said Alistair. “You know you’re going to agree to whatever she wants, eventually.”

For a moment Morrigan looked as if she were inclined to argue with him some more, but then she said, “Very well. I will come.”

 

* * *

 

_A Portrait of the King and Queen on the Eleventh Anniversary of Their Marriage_

 

The Queen is seated. She wears a gown of red and gold, covered by a breastplate of expertly crafted dragonbone. She wears a golden crown over a bejeweled hairnet, blood red rubies and silver chains over her dark curling hair. One hand is laid in her lap, and it might seem demure, if her other hand did not hold her sword—the sword that killed the archdemon, a sword of legend. She grips the hilt, holding it upright; the tip of its blade is pointed down, resting on the floor. She is beautiful and graceful and deadly, her eyes gaze a warning out of the painting, as if she could cut you down where you stand looking up at her.

Behind her stands the King, in shining silverite armor under a great black and silver fur lined cloak. One hand rests on his hip, the other on the Queen’s shoulder. He is smiling out at the viewer; he looks charming, devil-may-care. His crown is a little crooked, rakish, and with a beard he might have been the spitting image of King Maric, though his skin is a shade or two darker than his legendary father’s. It is one of the few traces that can be seen of his mysterious mother. That and his eyes, which are a warm shade of hazel, not Theirin blue. Those eyes are almost dancing in this portrait. He seems happy in the knowledge that his Queen could kill you, and you think he might laugh as he watches her do it.

At the Queen’s feet lounges a mabari hound, his head tilted up proudly, the noblest of dogs. There is grey around his muzzle and he carries the gravitas of many years in his uncannily intelligent eyes.

There is another new portrait of note, which hangs in the hall. Painted by the same artist, by the Queen’s request. It is titled _Lady Morrigan and Son_ , though in future years it will come to be known as _The King as a Young Boy and His Lady Mother_. That time is a long ways off, however.

It is a portrait of a boy of ten, with dark hair and eyes. There is little of his father in him, though some will come to say they can see it in his smile. He stands to the side of his mother. Her body, adorned in a dark maroon Orlesian style gown, is angled towards the viewer, but her face is turned away. The portrait only captures her in profile: she seems to disappear into the dark background of the painting, half in shadow, half in light. Both of her hands rest on her son’s shoulders, possessively.

They say that if you follow her gaze across the room, you see that she is looking at the portrait of the King and Queen. Many people over the years have sworn that if you stand there, and look to the King and Queen, and then look quickly back, you will catch a glimpse of the Lady Morrigan’s face, her golden eyes fixed directly upon you. Blink but a little and the moment is lost.

It is likely just a myth. There are many myths about the Lady in the painting. Some say she is a dragon. Some say she is an immortal witch. Some say she cursed the Queen’s children and bewitched the King so that her son could rule.

 

* * *

 

The knock on her door was so soft and discreet that Esme barely heard it. But she had been listening for it, for the footsteps approaching her chambers, and as soon as the tap came she opened the door.

Morrigan entered the room, carrying bottles in her hands and a sack tucked under her arm. She wore a dark hooded cloak, and her golden eyes glittered under the fringe of her bangs.

“Here I am,” she said, soft amusement in her voice. “Sneaking about with potions and trinkets like any common wood’s witch. My mother would be so proud.”

“I am grateful,” said Esme, taking the bottles from her.

“Save your gratitude for if it works.”

“Either way.”

Morrigan just smiled, and opened the sack. She pulled out a severed nug foot wrapped up in red velvet on one end, and looked at it in disdain. “Half this stuff is ridiculous superstition, and I wouldn’t even sneeze at it if you weren’t so desperate.”

“I’m not…” Esme began, but then didn’t bother continuing the lie. She had asked Morrigan to bring her whatever fertility treatments she could find, whether it was an old wives tale, an apothecaries magic, or some dark secret from Flemeth’s grimoire. If that didn’t say desperation, nothing did.

Morrigan tapped the bottle Esme now held in her right hand. The glass was a dark, opaque blue. “That one is for you. It’s very important you don’t mix the two up.”

“Why?”

Because they are different. Do you want me to list all the ingredients and tell you all my secret witchy ways?”

“Please don’t mock me.”

“I don’t know if I can help myself. You’re so easy to tease.”

Esme uncorked the bottle and sniffed it. “Is there… blood?” she asked, hesitantly.

“Is that a problem?”

“Well, for Alistair…”

Morrigan smiled. She tapped the other bottle, brown clear glass. “No blood in that one. Though, to work, he should be drinking a cup every night. So, perhaps don’t get your hopes up just yet.”

“There’s blood in mine, then.”

“I told you this kind of magic wasn’t always as squeaky clean as you would like it to be. And why would it be? Sex is a rite in and of itself. All children are little demons born of blood magic, in a way.”

Esme snorted. “Tell that to the Chantry.”

“Hang the Chantry.”

Esme replaced the cork. “Whose blood…?”

“A virgin’s. No one you know. And I didn’t kill anyone for it. It might surprise you to know that most people have plenty to spare.”

“Why a virgin?”

“Aren’t you all full of questions?” Morrigan laughed. “Nervous?”

“I don’t usually drink blood. The last time was, well, memorable.”

“Tis not from a virgin hurlock if that’s what you’re worried about. And… now I’ve put the image of mating darkspawn in my head… Charming.”

Esme made a face, memories of bloated, horrific broodmothers rising to the surface. That was the absolute last thing she wanted to be thinking about on this night.

“I shall let you in on a little secret,” said Morrigan. “There’s nothing inherently magical about virgin blood, but if you’re going to be doing things with blood, you’d rather it not be diseased in any way, and so tis usually safest to use a virgin. Really very mundane and practical. I’m sorry to ruin the scary mystery behind it.”

“Thank you.”

“Now, you’re going to want to hang this lovely nug foot above the bed. And this,” she pulled an amulet out of the sack, “you don’t need to put on right now but you should wear it every day.”

Esme took it and turned it over in her hands. It was golden, and in the center was a gem that shifted in color from red to orange as it caught the light in different ways. Otherwise it was unremarkable, looking like any bit of jewelry a noblewoman might wear.

Morrigan hefted a small wooden statue out of the sack. It looked like a squat, corpulent woman. “This is an authentic Chasind fertility carving; you should set it up at the foot of your bed and rub it every day.”

“Didn’t I see something like that in _Wonders of Thedas_ once?”

“You did, and so did I. Anyway, here,” out came a small scroll, “tis a prayer to an elven god I’ve translated for you. I don’t know if twill work for two humans but you did say you wanted everything. I also have some incense bundles and herbs you’ll need to offer up to Rilla of the Fireside, but you’ll need to burn half in the hearth and then stand on a hill and feed the other half to birds. Do not ask me why, tis an Avvar custom.”

Esme reached forward and took the scroll. “When should I say this prayer?”

“Whenever you please. Often.”

Morrigan went through the rest of the sack, giving skeptical commentary on most things, and Esme knew she thought her foolish. She had not told Morrigan why she was so dead set on trying again to conceive, just that she wanted whatever magical help she could get.

When Morrigan had gone over everything, she smiled and said, “Well then. You should go find your husband. Or do you ring a little bell and he comes running?”

Esme ignored the jest. “I really do appreciate this, Morrigan.”

“Please stop thanking me. After all, you gave me a child, tis only right I do what I can for you.”

“That was a long time ago, and you owe me no debt for it. It was an even exchange.”

“I know.”

“Is there anything you want, for this…?”

“Tis not a transaction. I’m helping you because you are my friend. Tis a favor.” Morrigan reached out and put a hand on the side of her face. “If you must,” she said, mouth curving into a mischievous smile, “just give me a kiss, and think of me when you’re in your husband’s arms.”

She said it as if it were another jest, but Esme responded, quite seriously, “Is that what you truly want?” Her pulse quickened under Morrigan’s cool, soft touch.

“Oh, let’s not travel too far down the road to truth,” said Morrigan, lowering her hand back down to her side. The smile seemed forced, a little sad. “Tis not a destination I think I want to reach.”

“You don’t have to leave, now,” Esme said, heart thumping in her throat. She took Morrigan’s hand in her own. “Not if you don’t want to.”

Morrigan’s smile faded altogether. She licked her lips, as if nervous. “I think Alistair would disagree.”

Esme held her gaze. “Alistair will agree to anything I ask him to.”

“Oh dear,” Morrigan said, softly, “and he calls me the witch.”

Esme shook her head. “He likes you. And I know you don’t loathe him so much as you pretend.”

Her laugh was weary. “I know what you think you know. Tis your own fevered imagination, I swear it.”

“It could be… pleasant.” Esme reached out to brush her arm, hesitant, her touch light.

“Could it? Do you really want to reenact that night?” Morrigan asked, looking down at where Esme’s fingers traced the curve of her elbow. “I wouldn’t have thought…”

“Reenact? No. I think it could have gone better. I think it could go better.” She followed the path of Morrigan’s arm down to the soft flesh of her wrist, feeling the quick fluttering of her pulse just below the surface. The fine hairs on her forearm stood up. “We’re not nervous children anymore.”

“Aren’t we?” Morrigan laughed. “I think you propose a dangerous thing.” She turned her hand over and laced her fingers through Esme’s, looking down thoughtfully at the their palms pressed together. “But… if you wish it… I will stay.”

Esme kissed her, and Morrigan whispered into her mouth, “Witch.”

 

* * *

 

When Esme knocked at Alistair’s door, his voice came from inside, saying, “You know it’s always open to you.” She pushed it open and saw him sitting by the fire, looking utterly relaxed with a nighttime snack and the latest issue of _Swords and Shields._

He had a smile for her, but it faltered when he saw her hand in hand with Morrigan. “Ah,” he said, closing the book.

Esme had told him that she was going to ask Morrigan for help preparing her a fertility elixir, and he had not objected outright, seeming more concerned that she might be getting her hopes up about children again, than that she wanted to involve magic. Now that Morrigan was here, he looked unsurprised, but wary.

“Good evening, Alistair,” said Morrigan, disengaging her hand from Esme’s. “Is that a good book?” The question was innocent and polite on the surface, but there was a teasing edge to her voice.

“No, not really. It’s… um, someone sent it to me. I don’t usually read that sort of thing,” he denied, embarrassed to be caught reading smutty literature. _Swords and Shields_ was a cheap and tawdry romance serial by Varric Tethras, whom, Esme had recently learned, sent all his new publications to Alistair, signed with his regards _._ The dwarven novelist had been hired on as a mercenary when Alistair traveled to Antiva, accompanying him all the way to Tevinter, and now apparently they were friends. Or, at the least, the dwarf like having a king to count among his acquaintances and to send his books to.

Alistair set the book aside and stood up. “Well?” he said, glancing back and forth between them, eyeing the bottles and the mysterious sack. “What brings the two of you here? Together? It’s late…”

Esme wasn’t sure if he genuinely hadn’t caught on, or if he was pretending not to know.

“I am but a humble servant, here to help,” said Morrigan, giving him a mocking little bow, and he sighed. She straightened up and added, with seriousness, “But I will leave, if I am not welcome.”

“I… see,” he said, slowly, as if just realizing why she was there. A flush crept up his neck.

He looked to Esme, who just returned his gaze with a wordless smile, a tilt of her head—an invitation or an apology it was left for him to interpret.

“Is this what you want?” he asked, forcing her to speak it out loud.

“Yes.”

“Well then. Your desire is my command,” he said, acquiescing with a slight nod, “as it always has been.”

She stepped up to him, holding the twin bottles, one blue, one brown, and Morrigan went over to the bed with her sack of superstitions. As Esme poured the draughts into separate goblets, Morrigan climbed up onto the bed and reached for the canopy, tying the nug foot in place. She also had a garland of entwined crystal grace and royal elfroot in the sack, which she withdrew carefully and set about hanging from the canopy as well.

Alistair watched her with a bemused look, and seemed like he as about to ask what in the Maker she was doing, but Eseme nudged him and offered him a cup. “This does bring back memories,” he said, nervously, and she just shook her head.

She picked up her own goblet, and linked her arm around Alistair’s, as Morrigan had instructed. They drank at the same, like a wedding toast. Despite whatever other ingredients were in hers, Esme could not miss the coppery tang of blood. Morrigan must have been true to her word about there being none in Alistair’s drink, because he made no objection or comments about blood magic. He set his cup down and kissed Esme, and she wondered if he could taste the transgression on her tongue.

He said nothing, if he could. He picked her up and sat her on the table, and she wrapped her legs around his hips and held him closely as he kissed her. The bottles shuddered dangerously as they were pushed towards the edge, and a silver cup teetered off and rolled across the floor.

Morrigan sprinkled a line of powder around the bed, some ground up mixture of crystals, then dusted her hands off into the fire, watching it spark and crackle in response, with some satisfaction.

Then she shrugged out of her robe, and her dress, until she stood naked before the hearth. Esme watched her, over Alistair’s shoulder, as he kissed and nuzzled at her neck.

Morrigan had always been quite slim, but age and a child had put a bit of extra softness around her midsection. It was an appealing softness. Deceptive, too, much as her lithe frame had never betrayed the magic she carried inside her, which could destroy her enemies as viciously as any warhammer hefted in a bulky warrior’s grip.

Morrigan went over to the bed, carefully stepping over the ring she had made around it, and, pulling back the blankets, climbed in. She lay on her side, head propped up in one hand, and patted the bed with the other.

Esme pushed Alistair away gently and slid down off the table. She dropped her dressing gown from her shoulders, already nude underneath, and helped pull off his clothes. Then she led him by the hand over to the bed, where she crawled into Morrigan’s waiting arms.

Esme lay on her side, facing Morrigan, running her hands along the softness of her skin, kissing her and breathing in her scent. Alistair lay down behind her, pressing up close and kissing her ear, her neck, her shoulders and stroking the length of her body. He was hard as rock already, but he rubbed himself between her legs slowly, not entering yet but gliding back and forth along her wet, slick crack.

They moved in a slow rhythm together, unhurried, experimental. When once Alistair and Morrigan had fought over Esme, they shared her now. She was kept firmly between them, almost a barrier, and they barely touched each other, save for glancing, accidental brushes.

Morrigan’s hands found their way down between Esme’s legs, probing into the folds and searching for the nub that made Esme gasp in pleasure when she found it. Alistair thrust himself all the way inside her, then, tugging her hips up and twisting over so that she was under him, and Morrigan was pressed into the mattress beneath them both.

The pleasure they took from one another led to eventual exhaustion, and they lay in a tangle of limbs, quietly dozing and not thinking about who was touching whom, or where.

Esme did not realize she had fallen asleep until she woke to see that Morrigan was still there, slumbering to one side of her, and Alistair was close upon her other side, snoring softly into the pillow. Somehow, she had expected Morrigan to slink away when it was done, to retreat to her own room. She was glad that she had not. She felt a warm contentment just listening to their breathing in the dark, feeling warmth on either side of her, and soon she fell back into dreaming.

She woke again later to sounds of quick, feathery gasping, and wet sucking noises. She lifted her head to see that the fire had been stoked, suffesing the room in a warm glow bright enough to see clearly by.

Morrigan had moved to a different spot on the bed, laying on her back, stroking her own breasts, her eyes closed and her mouth slack as she arched her back.

Alistair’s face was buried between her legs, his hands gripping her buttocks as he ate her like she was a Feastday pudding. Esme felt an odd, old twinge of jealousy prick at her, like a buried instinct that would never quite fade. But she didn’t do anything, just lay on her side watching, her eyes taking in the way Morrigan’s legs draped over Alistair shoulders, her feet rubbing little circles into his back, the way his fingers dug furrows into the soft pale roundness of her bottom.

Morrigan opened her eyes, as if sensing she was being watched. “Esme,” she said, her voice weak and raspy with pleasure, “I’m sorry… you were sleeping so peacefully… I didn’t want to wake you.”

Alistair lifted his head to look at her, his eyes glazed with lust, and Morrigan immediately grabbed a fistful of his hair and shoved his face back down, saying, “No stopping.” He didn’t fight her, just shifted and returned to his work with renewed vigor.

Morrigan’s eyes danced wickedly as she looked at Esme, as if daring her to do something about it.

Esme got up and crawled over to lay across Morrigan, pulling her mouth in for a kiss. She slid a hand beneath Morrigan’s, cupping her left breast, rubbing it gently, then she took the nipple between her fingers and pinched, hard, twisting it while at the same time biting Morrigan’s lower lip.

Morrigan squealed, satisfyingly, digging her hands into Esme’s arms and nipping back at her, a taste of blood between their lips.

Alistair slipped out from between her legs and sat up, breathing heavily.

Morrigan flipped Esme over onto her back and said, “That was a dirty trick. You’ll pay for it.” Then she trailed a path of nipping, light bites, down Esme’s neck  and shoulder, to her breasts.

Alistair slid backwards out of the bed, pausing to stretch, his neck popping as he rolled his shoulders. Eseme reached a hand out to him and said, “Oh, don’t go, save me,” unable to stop a giggle, “there’s a wild fennec in my bed.” Morrigan made a playful growling sound as she held a nipple between her teeth, worrying at it.

“Sorry, love,” he said, walking over to the table, “I need a break. And a drink.” He poured himself a goblet of wine and made no move to return, instead sitting down and stretching out in the chair.

“She’s going to eat me alive.”

“I hope so.”

As if in defiance, Morrigan did not shift her attention from Esme’s chest, instead staying focused on her right nipple for a long time, before moving to the left. She moved one hand down to play lazily with the downy, curling hair around Esme’s crotch, but it was only teasing movements for a time. She began to push her fingers deeper only when Esme moved her hand insistently with her own, guiding her inside.

“I’m going outside,” she heard Alistair say, and she looked up to see him standing over the bed, shrugging into a cloak. He reached down to brush her hair away from her forehead and trailed his fingers down her face, tracing them over the swell of her bruised and bitten lips.

“Where are you going?” she said, sighing.

“Just for some air,” he said. “And to recite the Chant of Light. I don’t know. You’ll be fine.”

She closed her eyes, kissing his fingertips as he moved away, and then he was gone, leaving her to Morrigan’s mercy.

Morrigan gave as good as she had gotten, and Esme was twisted into knots of desperate pleasure, crying out as she came in waves, every tangle within her releasing, unraveling. Morrigan smiled a devilish smile, falling to the side and spreading herself out, exhausted.

Esme lay motionless for a while, quietly staring at the garland, at the nug’s foot, at the rumpled sheets all around them. She looked over at Morrigan, and finally broke the silence, asking, “Why did you do that? Why… with Alistar. While I was sleeping.”

“Because you wanted me to,” Morrigan said. She lifted herself to one elbow and poked Esme’s forehead lightly with a tired finger. “I know what goes on in that twisted head of yours.”

“I’m not twisted.” She lazily batted Morrigan’s hand away.

“Of course not. You’re the Hero of Ferelden. A pinnacle of virtue.”

“I heard a song in Tevinter which said that I was a virgin,” Esme recalled, turning over and yawning. “It said that I grew up in a cloister and took a vow of chastity, and that the King had to kneel at my feet and pray instead of consummating the marriage.”

“Tevinters are a strange lot.”

Esme just nodded. Morrigan was glistening with the efforts of the night. She had a slick of sweat across her clavicle, a drop running down between her breasts, and Esme rolled back towards her to kiss it away. Then she lay back with her head against Morrigan’s shoulder.

Morrigan said, “We’ll regret this.”

“No, we won’t. I don’t.”

“You will. Or I will. I think I do already.”

“Oh stop,” Esme said, closing her eyes. “Don’t be cynical, for once.”

“Very well,” said Morrigan. “If you wish, I won’t think on the future at all.”

They lay together for a while, not speaking or moving.

Morrigan drifted off to sleep, her breathing slowing until it reached a steady rhythm, and Esme lay watching her in the increasingly dimming light as the fire burned down again.

Eventually, Alistair returned. He went over to the fire, poking at it and tossing another log onto it, before he shrugged out of the cloak, tossing it over the chair. His skin was golden in the flickering firelight, and she watched him as he walked back over to the bed.

“Did you recite the entire Chant of Light?” she whispered, as his slid between the sheets and took her in his arms, drawing her away from Morrigan. “You were gone long enough.”

“I took a walk around the walls,” he said, then kissed her ear and whispered into it, “You were too busy to miss me.”

She wiggled in the tightness of his embrace and turned her face slightly, kissing the underside of his jaw.

“Why aren’t you sleeping?” he murmured.

She wiggled again, trailing her hand down between them to follow the trail of golden hair that led to the triangle below his navel. “Because I’m me.”

“Maker’s balls, woman,” he said, “it’s nearly morning, and you’re still not satisfied?”

She smiled against his neck. “No. Never. I’m insatiable.”

He groaned, then said, “Fine,” and rolled over onto his back. He motioned downwards and said, with a smirk, “Then do your wifely duty, my Queen.”

She laughed, then put a finger to her own lips and whispered, “Don’t wake Morrigan. She needs to rest.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

She leaned over him, taking his cock into her hands and then bending down to pull it between her lips, sucking till it grew hard and filled her mouth up with its girth. It did not take long. He sighed, either in resignation or pleasure, rubbing her back in slow circles. She worked on him for a while, till she could tell, from experience, by the sounds he made and the tightening of his muscles, that he was about to spend himself. She drew back, unwilling to let him finish now, and he muttered something about her being a cruel vixen.

She straddled him and lowered herself down, taking him in, and looked down into his face as she rode him in slow, deliberate strokes. Across the vast bed, Morrigan still slept on. Her hands twitched a little in her sleep, and she mumbled in a dream, but she was too far gone to be stirred by their lovemaking. The crystal grace hung around the canopy tinkled every so slightly, the trademark bell-like sound the only thing besides the crackling fire.

“Are you happy?” he said. There was a shadow over his eyes, cast by the garland above.

“Yes.”

“Is this what you want?”

“Yes.”

“Do you even know what I’m asking?”

She shook her head. She realized she didn’t, she didn’t know. Did he mean himself? Morrigan? The three of them together? Or the child she was trying to conceive?

It didn’t matter, though, because the answer to every option was yes.

“I want everything,” she murmured, her breath turning to sharp gasps as she came again. She fell against his chest, whispering, “Everything.”

 

* * *

 

Earlier, Morrigan had woken from a dream to see Esme curled up in deep sleep beside her, and Alistair gone from the bed. She lifted her head and saw him by the fire, naked as the day he was born, crouching there stoking the ashes back to life with the poker. She thought, _What an absolute madman._ Who stoked a fire in naught but their nameday suit?

King Alistair of Ferelden, of course.

He stood up and stretched, pouring himself some wine and scratching his behind, languidly, not a care in the world. He’d just bedded his beautiful wife with the help of another woman, so she imagined he must be very pleased with himself.

Ten years ago, when she had first met him, he had mimicked her voice and warned the others of his party that she was an evil scary barbarian witch who was not to be trusted. She had disliked him instantly. He seemed the sort of lackadaisical youth who coasted through life on good looks and charm without any substance underneath, the sort of man she had spied on from afar growing up and been told by her mother was easy to manipulate but whose stupidity must also be feared. Stupid men who thought they knew everything were the people who hunted Flemeth, the Templars Morrigan had lured into her mother’s woods as a child.

She had been unsurprised when she later discovered that he had been raised in the Chantry and trained to be a Templar. He was just so the type.

She had known the second time she met him that Flemeth expected her to make a child with him, and that made her dislike him even more. Of all the Grey Warden men her mother could have plucked from Ostagar, she had chosen _that_ one. The one with stupid hair who made stupid jokes and stupidly called her apostate, maleficar, and witch instead of her name.

She had liked Esme. Esme was no mage but she had a sympathetic, open mind, a rarity in a noblewoman… at least, for what Flemeth had taught her of that breed. Oh, but she was not like a peasant or a Chasind, either. There was no mistake that she came from quite high stock; well educated, well mannered, and soft spoken when she needed to be, as if putting on a practiced guise. Morrigan approved.

Esme was an uniquely fascinating woman. She fought like a woman possessed, smashing her shield into her foes with a strong left arm and cutting through them with her sword like a farmer threshing wheat. It showed that she had been practicing at this long before being conscripted by the Wardens, another thing that made Morrigan curious what sort of person she was. Raised in a castle, daughter to one of the most powerful men in the land, but more at home with a weapon in her hand than many a soldier Morrigan had seen.

But despite all that, she had a way of smiling that made you think maybe the world wasn’t all bad, and a warm, encouraging laugh.

Twas little wonder that Alistair had been desperately in love with her already when Morrigan met them. At least, after they all had set out together from Flemeth’s hut, trekking towards Lothering, he had stared at Esme with such unabashed, wistful longing that Morrigan was embarrassed and irritated to witness it. Esme’s smiles and laughter were most often directed to her dog, but she had some to spare for Alistair, as well, chuckling often at his inane jokes. It was as Flemeth always said. Men were easy to snare and made prey hardly worth catching.

They were making camp just outside Lothering the first night, and Alistair had gone still, just watching Esme move around. They were far enough away that Morrigan knew she would not be heard by Esme. So she said, “A woman such as that twould never consent to lie with you.”

His head snapped around and he looked at her with a scarlet face. “What did you say?”

“Nothing,” she said, and moved away quickly, without seeming _too_ quick, not like she was running away. Just leaving.

They had not yet managed to exchange more than a few words without insulting each other, but this seemed to hit much closer to home than any other jab. She felt satisfaction. A verbal cut well placed. _Well done,_ she could almost hear her mother say, though in actuality Flemeth wouldn’t be pleased. Morrigan was supposed to be buttering this Grey Warden up so that one day he would put a child in her, not insulting him or arguing with him.

But that plan of Flemeth’s would only work if all else went according to plan. This baby her mother expected her to conceive would only matter if they could rebuild an army and defeat the archdemon, otherwise it would just be yet another helpless whelp in a world full of bastards.

There were a lot of very big if’s, she told herself, between now and then. She needn’t concerned herself with an eventuality that may never come. For now all she need do was make sure they all stayed alive. And she set herself to that task. She had personally saved Alistair Theirin’s sorry hide more times than she could count.

Though she would never have admitted it, he had saved her a time or two as well. His half-formed Templar abilities actually came in handy when they fought other mages… it was oddly satisfying to see the surprised and dismayed look on a mercenary mage’s face when their spell was canceled before it could do any damage, right before she unleashed her own unhindered fireball straight into that confused face.

She still remembered once, one of the first times they had done this to an enemy mage, he had smiled an easy smile and said, “I think we work well together.”

She had refused to give him the satisfaction of agreeing with him, and hadn’t even acknowledged him as she had bent to rifle through the fallen enemy’s body, snatching up their lyrium dust and other potions. Her reticence didn’t stop them from pulling this one-two punch as often as possible, however.

There was another time, just after a battle, when she was panting and bloody and all out of magical energy. She had just spent the last of it to transform into a cloud of noxious, stinging insects, but was now back in her weak and vulnerable human form. Shifting in battle was always most dangerous, since it gave her an advantage for a while but left her defenseless when she came out of the state, and it took a great deal of energy to maintain.

One last foe had risen up from a hiding spot amidst a pile of other corpses. surprising her. It had her dead to rights. She gripped her staff in weakened hands and thought she could do naught but bash its skull in and hope her staff did not snap. Then, all of a sudden, Alistair’s sword had cleaved right through her enemy, putting a bloody end to its would-be attack.

This time he hadn’t offered any quip or snide remark, just saying, “Are you good?” waiting only a moment for her nod before leaving to scan the rest of the area for other stragglers.

She had looked at him go and thought, _Oh, I see._ If she were a stupid, empty-headed girl with no sense, she could have felt something in that moment. Fluttery butterflies in her stomach. A warm sense of gratitude. She thought about pretending to herself that she did. It might help when it came time to do the Ritual. If that time ever came.

Morrigan had been wrong about Esme. At least, the part about her never consenting to lie with Alistair. It took a while, but eventually she found her way into his tent, a fact that could not go unnoticed by anyone in the camp when the moans and the sighs and the _oh Alistairs_ started up at night.

It was disgusting. Sickening. Revolting.

It made her want to think less of Esme.

It also made her waste a great deal of mental energy trying to imagine what was going on in that tent.

She’d seen animals rutting and mating in the woods all through her childhood. She had spied on the Chasind in their intimate moments. She had read books on the subject of human, elven, and dwarven sexuality. She wasn’t an idiot who didn’t know what went where and why.

But, she had never done anything with anyone, herself. She had toyed with flirting, as her mother instructed her, but that was all. She had seen the kind of power that simpering and fluttering her eyelashes and pretending to be a damsel in distress had over men, even over other women, but she had done nothing with it.

She knew she ought to be practicing for the Ritual, but she kept telling herself she had time, she had time.

Of course, Esme laying claim to Alistair was a problem. There didn’t seem to be any other Grey Wardens left in all of Ferelden, so he was still her only viable option for the Ritual, and now he was the lover of her best and only friend.

Of the other men in their party, Zevran was the obvious choice to go to in order to try things out, but he lacked a certain amount of discretion that she felt was necessary. Oghren was the most disgusting creature she had ever seen, so he was right out. That left Sten, and for a short time she had flirted with the Qunari, commenting whenever she could on the sheer magnificence of his stature and his muscles, letting him know that she was _interested._

He had reacted with bemused disdain, which she didn’t find offputting at all. But then he had begun to talk about broken bones and healing periods and asked her, in that impassive voice, about her tolerance for pain, suggesting she wear armor and find something to bite down on. She did not know, to this day, if he had been teasing her or if he had been about to take her up on her offer. Either way, she had lost her nerve and they had never spoken of it again.

 _"You have quite messed this up, haven’t you?”_ she imagined her mother chiding her.

Hang her mother, though.

Once she discovered the secret of her mother’s legend, the longevity that made her a figure of myth going back generations, Morrigan decided that her mother must die.

Twas the only way to safeguard herself.

She had asked Esme to do it, for she feared what might happen if she were close when her mother’s ancient, treacherous soul left her current body. Esme had agreed, though somewhat reluctantly. And then, to Morrigan’s consternation, she had enlisted Alistair’s help.

“He used to be a Templar,” Esme had explained, as if Morrigan was simple enough to have forgotten. “I’m going to need him.” She had also recruited Wynne to accompany her; Wynne was a self-satisfied Circle Mage, the kind of mage Flemeth would have spat upon for allowing her powers to be curtailed and corralled, a mage who believed the drivel the Chantry preached about magic and magic users being too dangerous to be free. The worst kind of mage, one who bought so totally into her own oppression she didn’t even see it as such.

That promising bunch, plus Zevran and the dog, had gone off to the Korcari Wilds to kill the most powerful mage Morrigan thought to exist in the world, and Morrigan had sat alone by the fire and chewed her nails in worry.

They had come back, all of them, even the dog. It had seemed too good to be true, even at the time, and of course Flemeth had not been gone for good. But for a time she had breathed easier. And for a time she had put her worry over the Ritual aside. She did not have to do her mother’s bidding, after all. She could live her own life.

And yet she had stayed with the Wardens and their other companions, fighting on towards the inevitable time when they would have to face the dragon.

She would still sometimes look at Alistair and try to see what Esme saw in him. She would make a game of it in her head. _I am Esme, and I am thinking that he is very handsome and brave and charming. I suppose his shoulders are quite broad. He is good looking, I’ll give him that._ She would lie awake at night and listen to the sounds coming from the tent the two lovebirds shared, and would try to imagine herself in Esme’s place, would try to imagine what she was thinking, what she was feeling.

When the time did come to march upon Denerim and fight the archdemon, she found she could not stand idly by. She went to Esme’s room and told her what she needed to do, and she told herself it was because she saw value in her mother’s plan, that she wanted to preserve the soul of the Old God, just as her mother had instructed.

She didn’t want to acknowledge how afraid she was for Esme. She would die and there was little way around it. She would die, or Alistair would, and that was hardly any better because Esme loved her stupid, foolish, reckless boy-king to ridiculous extremes. Morrigan didn’t want to see how losing him might break her. Esme had already lost too much.

She was so different from Morrigan. She’d had a family she had loved, and even though Morrigan didn’t know what that was like, she wondered.

She had listened to Esme talk about her mother, the one whom Rendon Howe had murdered, the one whose head he’d mounted on a spike over Highever’s gate. She listened and she wondered if it was better to have a good and loving mother who would die for you, or a witch you had to kill to save yourself.

She had wondered what kind of mother she would turn out to be.

She didn’t regret saving Esme, though.

She didn’t even regret saving Alistair.

Now, here she was, a decade later, and she had found her way back into Esme and Alistair’s bed. All for Esme, of course. Because it was what she wanted.

It was hard to say no. She had a way of making your want to say yes, to anything.

Ironically, no one else in the world understood this so well as Alistair, so Morrigan had found her way round to a kinship with him. He’d been saying “yes” to Esme for years, finding himself doing things he’d never dreamed he would, all because she had asked it of him. She must have a little magic of her own, Morrigan thought, for she attracted people to her wherever she went, until everyone was either half in love with her or filled with murderous obsession.

She ignored them all. It was a thing to watch. Esme was oblivious to the effect she had on others. She didn’t see the way Leliana had looked at her, big blue eyes all full of want, had not understood that the flirtatious jokes Zevran tossed her way were hiding earnest desire. Morrigan could only imagine what other hearts she had broken without even trying, in her other journeys through the years.

But she did notice Alistair. And Morrigan. She noticed them, alright. Were they lucky or cursed, to be the objects of her affection? Morrigan wasn’t quite sure.

She should leave. She should not stay. She knew this.

It was for Kieran’s sake, she told herself. Not her own. Kieran needed some place to call home, some sort of roots he could claim, even if his life took him elsewhere later. For all the dysfunction of her youth, Morrigan had the Korcari Wilds. There would always be something of them in her essence, even if she never went back. But she did not want that to be Kieran’s home.

She wanted him to have a family. A family like Esme had had. People he could speak of in years to come with fondness in his eyes, the way Esme spoke of the Couslands. Morrigan wanted to be the mother he mentioned, with a smile, like the way Eleanor’s memory stirred happiness up in Esme even alongside the sadness. But Morrigan knew she couldn’t be the only person in his life. The world was too volatile for that.

She was not her mother, cheating death until her soul was stripped bare of all that had once made her human. She would not be that. And so Kieran would lose her, someday.

But it wasn’t just for Kieran that she was staying. It wasn’t just for his sake that she had come here.

She had never stopped thinking about the time Esme had come searching for her. For years she remembered the sight of her, as beautiful and deadly as ever, fighting her way through dragon cultists and dragon hatchlings to find Morrigan. She had offered to come with her, to help her in whatever purpose she was about, and Morrigan almost believed that she was sincere.

But she hadn’t really been aware of what she was offering. If she slipped through that eluvian with Morrigan she would be abandoning Alistair for years, perhaps forever, and Morrigan didn’t think she truly understood that. She wouldn’t have offered, if she had.

Morrigan could not accept. She did not want to deal with the fallout when Esme began to regret her choice, began to wish for home, for Alistair, and would inevitably resent Morrigan from taking her away from her life.

At least, that was what Morrigan had thought, until she heard that Esme had disappeared anyway. Years later, but still, she had caused all manner of consternation by just up and leaving her life at court and her devoted husband. Despite all the gossip that circulated throughout Ferelden and reached Morrigan’s ears in Orlais, no one seemed to truly know where she had gone and why.

Morrigan had wanted to find out.

Now that she knew, she felt that she was justified in turning Esme away from the eluvian all those years ago. Esme still loved her stupid boy to pieces. Morrigan could see that, as could anyone with eyes. She had gone but she had come back. She had gone looking for a Cure, so that they could live together happily, have children, grow old. She had done it for him.

Morrigan didn’t want to acknowledge how that pricked at her.

And Esme, the silly thing, still nursed her strange sense of titillated jealousy towards Morrigan, all these years later.

Esme had often made allusions to Morrigan stealing Alistair away from her, all the way back during the Blight. At that time, Morrigan had felt as if her secret plans had been somehow tricked out of her mind by Esme. How had Esme known that Flemeth had instructed Morrigan to seduce Alistair? Morrigan couldn’t think of a single time she had even attempted to carry out her mother’s wishes, and yet Esme just seemed to be able to guess her purpose.

Now, she thought she was mistaken. Esme hadn’t had any idea what purpose Flemeth had given Morrigan, not before Morrigan had explained it to her. She had just made it all up in her head and happened to get near to the truth. After the Ritual had been done, Morrigan thought that Esme had not only been imagining it, but enjoying it. She liked her little fever dream about Morrigan and Alistair behind her back, as if jealousy was an aphrodisiac.

What a strange girl she had been. What a strange woman she still was now.

Morrigan looked at her, sleeping now. She was older than she had been when first they met (weren’t they all?) but she looked young when she slept. It was the helplessness of sleep, Morrigan thought. The defenselessness of unconsciousness. It made the years, the accomplishments, the tragedies, the titles, the triumphs… all melt away. In sleep she could have been a child.

Morrigan turned away, and looked again at Alistair by the fire. Her stirring had made him notice that he was not the only one awake, and he looked back at her.

He should have been shy to be naked-as-you-please, but the years had changed him. And this was his bedchamber, too, so perhaps that is why he just gave her a long, appraising, wordless look back.

She wasn’t sure she liked that look. It reminded her of when she came to Denerim, two years after his invitation, and he had told her why he’d killed Yavana, who was supposedly her sister.

She didn’t mourn the loss of a woman she’d never met and felt no familial kinship with, not even the lingering wistfulness she allowed herself to feel over her mother.

But he’d been a different sort of Alistair than she remembered. Harder. Wearier. Less given to joking or smiling and more inclined towards long, dangerous stares. Perhaps ten years of Kingship and a wandering wife did that to a person. Also, he was even less trusting when it came to mages and their tricks, if that could be imagined. The Mage-Templar War had a lot to do with that, but also the fact that his father had been enslaved and killed by blood magic.

“Tevinter Magisters,” she had said. “They’re a unique lot. Terrible.”

“No,” he’d said. “It was your mother and your sister. Conspiring to preserve the dragons. Just like you and your Ritual. Just like you, Morrigan.”

“Have you really asked me to come all this way just to preach at me about the dangers of magic?”

“I wanted to see… him,” he had admitted. “I needed to know.”

“I told you that the child would not be evil. You can now see for yourself that he is normal, and human, and no threat to anyone.”

“Flemeth wanted my father, Yavana wanted me… for our blood. Did you want Kieran for his blood?”

“I told you,” she said, frustrated with him, but also with herself for taking the bait, for coming to Denerim even though she had known better, “I already told you, I needed a Grey Warden to father my child. You just happened to be the bastard prince. I did not know and I did not care.”

“But Flemeth knew.”

And she had not been able to deny that. Perhaps Flemeth had set her on the path to bed Alistair because she wanted more than just a child with the soul of an Old God. Perhaps she had wanted a child who also carried the blood of Calenhad. Perhaps she had wanted to possess Kieran one day, steal all that power for herself. It was a fear Morrigan had nursed for years, until Flemeth had lured Kieran into the eluvian at Skyhold and plucked Urthemiel’s soul from his body, and then… left.

Morrigan had assured Alistair that whatever Flemeth and Yavana had known, or planned, did not matter anymore. Kieran was not _their_ son. And she would never let anyone hurt him, not for his blood, not for anything. “I am not Flemeth,” she said. How long had she been saying that? Saying it to herself, to her mother, to anyone and everyone who would listen. I’m not my mother, I’m not, I’m not. I am Morrigan.

That had seemed to satisfy him, and she had stayed in Denerim, wondering when Esme would return, wondering how long she should wait, wondering if she had made a mistake. Watching Kieran win over his father just by being the good, sweet, innocent boy that he was. Wondering if this was for the best, wondering if she would live to regret this choice.

Now, Alistair was looking at her that way again. As if asking himself if she was human or witch, truly, as if those things were mutually exclusive. She sat up in bed, returning his look and his boldness, the sheet slipping away from her breasts.

He walked back over to her, slow and cautious, till he stood at the edge of the bed. She sat up straighter, then rose to her knees, so that he could not loom over her. They were almost eye-to-eye, now, and very close.

“Why are you here, Morrigan?” he asked.

“You’ll have to be more specific,” she said, and slid her arms up to rest across his shoulders. She had decided that she liked his shoulders, back when she played the _What does Esme see in him?_ game. Those broad, kingly shoulders did make a rather nice place to rest one’s arms.

“In my bed.”

She jerked her head slightly back towards where Esme lay behind her. “Ask sleeping beauty over there.”

“I don’t need to ask her why she brought you here,” he said. “I’ve known she wanted you, for a long time, actually. I’m not stupid.”

She stretched, allowing her body to brush against his, and smiled languidly, tilting her head. She shrugged, then, folding her arms over so they didn’t just rest on his shoulders, but were almost entwined around his neck in a loose embrace. “Then you needn’t ask why I’m here.”

“That’s not an answer. I suppose I shouldn’t expect the truth from you. I had thought that—”

“That what? Tis an agenda behind my every action? Do you look for secret meanings in the way I take my tea? Whether I chose a scone or a muffin for breakfast?”

He touched her, finally, putting his hands on her legs and running them slowly upwards, lingering over the round swell of her buttocks and then pressing against her back, drawing her in closer until she was spread out against him. “It’s who you are,” he said, close enough to kiss but holding back. “You witches… all you do is manipulate, and lie, and use people’s desires against them.”

“This again,” she breathed out. “Tis a tiresome refrain. Morrigan the evil swamp witch, she stirs my manhood, my desire is wrong, so the Chantry says, therefore she hath bewitched me. Burn her, burn her, bu—”

He kissed her. It was the first time. They had made a child together a decade ago, they had made love to Esme just that night, sharing her between them, but they had never kissed each other. It was a strange thing.

Morrigan did not kiss, but rarely. In Orlais she had taken a few lovers to bed, but kisses had been few and far between. Growing up her mother had taught her that sex was a transaction, that everyone paid for their carnal desires in one way or another, and that the bard’s songs about love were all lies. Love was pain and betrayal, she’d said, and she warned Morrigan against it. She encouraged her to use sex as often as she saw fit, as a tool, a means to an end. But no more.

“Take it from me, child,” she had said, “once you’re in love, you’re the one doing the paying.”

Morrigan wasn’t quite sure why she associated kissing, specifically kissing on the lips, with going too far, tripping over the edge of bargaining into the chasm of love, but she did. A kiss was an intimate thing, more intimate than other acts far more scandalous. Yet people kissed in public, kissed carelessly, all the time.

Esme kissed Alistair all the time. Morrigan had watched them canoodling in camp countless times during the Blight, she had watched with her eyes rolling as they kissed on the streets of Denerim and in Orzammar and anywhere else they pleased. It was the way Esme claimed him, Morrigan thought. She was announcing to anyone who had eyes that he was hers, he would always be hers, and if anyone had any complaints they could be lodged with her sword and her shield.

Morrigan kissed Esme more than she ought—she could not help herself, there. She had kissed her when it shouldn’t mean anything, pretending it did not, but she had given herself away. Esme had known.

Now, she was kissing Alistair to win an argument. The argument being whether he desired her, or not. He could have stayed strong, could have pushed her away or ordered her out. Then he would have won the argument. But, ah, he had lost. He was losing.

Kissing him now, while Esme slept obliviously mere inches away, felt far more thrilling than Morrigan had ever thought it would. If she awoke now and found them embracing without her, what trouble they would be in.

She didn’t awaken, though, and Alistair went on kissing Morrigan, as if he didn’t want to do anything else. It was unnerving, now, because he didn’t kiss her with a hard, unyielding mouth, like she would have expected someone who hated everything about her even as he gave in to lust. That was how she had been kissed by the Orlesian men she had taken to bed, the chevaliers who hung around Celene’s court, whose favor she curried even while she sought to control them. Alistair’s kisses were slow and deep and… nice. Too nice. This was how he kissed his beloved Esme, she thought, and that wasn’t right. It wasn’t right of him, at all.

She pushed him away.

“Tell me, Alistair,” she said, sinking back down onto the bed, resting her head in the pillows, “did you make love to my sister before you drove a sword through her chest?”

“No.” He crawled onto the bed after her, running a hand along in the inside of her leg. “No, of course not.”

“Of course not,” she murmured an echo, laughing softly. “Too noble for that, aren’t we.”

“She reminded me of you,” he said, dipping down to kiss the inside of her thigh.

“Of course she did.”

“But she wasn’t like you.”

“Oh?”

“She was like… what Flemeth wanted you to be, not what you are.”

“I suppose that’s a compliment.” She reached down and ran her fingers through his hair. It was longer than it had been when she first met him. It didn’t stick up so comically in the front, as it once had. But when she brushed it back he looked a little more like the foolish, reckless, rude Templar boy who had come stumbling after Esme into her forest.

She thought he meant to fuck her, and she thought she was going to let him. She thought, _I will have to make a draught to stop a baby from coming,_ but he didn’t do that. He kissed her legs again, kissing his way up to her cunt and then kissing that too. She lay back and closed her eyes, feeling utterly defenseless.

Maybe this is what Esme saw in him. He was good at it, like he practiced often. Maybe this is why she looked at him like he hung the moon and the stars. Perhaps Morrigan had found out, at last.

That’s when Esme finally woke up.

Morrigan was lost to her pleasure and did not know how long she was watched, but she felt Esme’s gaze like it was a physical thing, and when she looked at her she saw fire in her eyes. The jealousy she guarded and tended to was there.

Alistair looked up when Morrigan spoke, but she was so close to coming that she immediately pushed him back down. He had to finish what he started.

Esme kept watching her with those dark eyes, and for the briefest moment Morrigan thought she had read it all wrong, and she really was in trouble. Not fun, naughty trouble, but thrown out of Denerim trouble. But the moment passed. Esme wordlessly joined them, draping herself across Morrigan and kissing her, touching her where she had been touching herself. Her punishment came in pinching and biting and it sent Morrigan over the edge, her orgasm crashing in waves of pleasure and pain.

“Why did you do that?” Esme asked her later, when Alistair had gone to clear his head, or whatever it was he felt he needed to do. “Why… with Alistar. While I was sleeping.”

“Because you wanted me to,” she said. Perhaps it was not even a lie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \-- If you made it past the tedious summarizing of the Dragon Age comics, thanks! Those comics (The Silent Grove/Those Who Speak/Until We Sleep) are balls to the wall wild rides from start to finish, but trying to quickly sum up the important plot points from the perspective of someone who heard it secondhand was an exercise in frustration. I didn't want to assume familiarity, though.
> 
> \-- The comics are... interesting. They feature a hardened King Alistair, and he's pretty fucking hardcore. Some might say too hardcore. But, what was most interesting to me was the footnote by Dave Gaider saying that in his mind, that worldstate was one where Alistair did the Dark Ritual with Morrigan, and that it affected how he wrote Alistair's interactions with Yavana. But that also means that in this story where everyone is hellbent on harnessing the power of Theirin blood, Kieran is the only untainted Theirin out there. You cannot tell me that Flemeth missed the significance of that. Oh well. I doubt there will be any concrete follow up, ever, since Kieran can either not exist at all or has a whopping 9 different possible fathers (Alistair, Loghain, Cousland, Tabris, Surana, Aeducan, Amell, Maherial, Brosca).
> 
> \-- Obviously, I prefer having Alistair as the father, because it seems to have the most plot significance, and also, I like Alistair/Morrigan or my own made up FemWarden/Morrigan better than Male Warden/Morrigan. I watched a video playthough and I just thought the romance storyline for Morrigan was kind of meh, would have been better with tortured bisexuals. Oh hey.
> 
> \-- As a ship, FemWarden/Alistair/Morrigan is less of a happy polyamorous lovefest and more of a three way car crash at an intersection with no stop signs. I am not a smut writer, but I tried my best. I blame David Gaider for everything.
> 
> \-- Morrigan, shopping at Wonders of Thedas: "Give me all of your weird sex stuff. Money tis no option. I have sovereigns for days."


	9. Ashes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While not graphic, the latter half of this chapter does deal with childbirth, and miscarriage.

* * *

_9:37 Dragon_

* * *

 

“Did you get along with the Comtessa’s daughters?”

Her son was 6 years old and it was the first time he was out and about in civilization, interacting with other human children, and it filled Morrigan with nameless dread.

“No, Mother,” said Kieran. “I think I frightened them. They did not want to speak to me.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” he confirmed, but left it at that. He seemed unconcerned. Then he changed the subject, abruptly, looking at her with solemn, serious eyes. “I had a strange dream last night.”

She leaned forward, intrigued. His dreams were always more than dreams; Urthemiel’s soul whispered to him in the Fade during slumber, telling him secrets of ages’ past. “Tell me of it.”

He turned away, gazing out the window at the wonders of the Winter Palace gardens, where he was rarely allowed to go and play, for Morrigan feared what would happen to him running about without her. The sunlight fell on his face and he said, “I dreamed that I had three sisters, but only one of them could talk.”

“And what did she say?”

“I don’t remember.” He turned his face back to her, the shaft of sunlight shifting to fall across his shoulder. “But she made me feel sad.”

She puzzled over the meaning of that dream for a while. She thought the three sisters must signify other Old Gods, though in all the writing that dealt with the Old Gods, only one of them, Razikale, was referred to as a female. She wondered if the sister who spoke and made Kieran feel sad in his dream referenced some future corruption of Razikale, who was one of two remaining Old Gods who had yet to be found by the darkspawn.

Morrigan found this trail of logic to be satisfactory, if ominous. She certainly didn’t think it had anything to do with any literal sisters of Kieran’s, as she had no plans to have any other children herself, and there had been no news of royal births out of Denerim for six years. She didn’t think Alistair had any other secret bastards. It just didn’t seem like him.

She put thoughts of that particular dream aside until years later. She thought of it again, when Esme asked her for help in conceiving a child. _I dreamt I had three sisters, but only one of them could talk,_ she thought, and said, “Yes. I will do all that I can.”

 

* * *

_9:42 Dragon_

* * *

 

The trip from Denerim to Val Royeaux was a slow and tedious one. Esme could have made the trip in half the time, riding alone or with a small party, but that would not befit the King and Queen of Ferelden on their way to witness the coronation of a new Divine. They made their way with a full cadre of soldiers, advisors, and various other noble hangers-on, just so that everywhere they went everyone knew how important they were.

Chancellor Eamon remained behind in Denerim to oversee the country, and Esme thought he was the lucky one.

But it was not a terrible journey. She rode in a carriage along with Morrigan and Kieran, and Kieran’s puppy, whom he had named Barkspawn on Alistair’s suggestion. They thought this name terribly clever, though Morrigan groaned and rolled her eyes, and Esme felt a little uneasy. To be sure, Kieran, who had once been a vessel for the archdemon’s soul, ordering about “Barkspawn” in the form of a Mabari who had imprinted upon him, was ironic. But she wasn’t quite sure if she found it as funny as Alistair did, or just downright ghoulish.

Alistair rode along outside on his horse, most of the time, though there was an empty space beside Esme in the carriage for him. He seemed uncomfortable with the close confines, and the just sitting on cushions doing nothing, “being ferried about on my royal ass” as he put it, and took the journey as an opportunity to get some fresh air and horseback riding in.

Esme could understand that, though she herself was happy enough to be ferried about on her royal ass, after all the years of walking and riding alone to distant lands in search of answers. And she had another reason to want to take it easy: she was, at long last, with child.

It was so early that she had told no one, save for Alistair and Morrigan. Alistair had wanted to cancel the trip, send their regrets to Val Royeaux, but that had been a ridiculous notion. He was just looking for any excuse to avoid having to take part in the ascension of the new Divine. When Esme told him that if he wanted her to stay home and beg off attending due to “sickness” he’d just have to go all by himself, he dropped that idea.

Morrigan has traveled far and wide by herself while pregnant and Esme certainly wasn’t going to take to her bed after one missed moonsblood. She was excited, a little terrified, but determined to be strong. Pregnancy was, in her mind, another battle to be won.

Morrigan and Kieran’s honored position in the royal carriage with the Queen was a source of unending jealousy for the nobles and others who vied for such an honored position. She didn’t care. Let them be jealous.

They camped every night along the road, and it was as much an ordeal as setting up a small village, with plenty of soldiers to patrol the perimeter of the clearing. It was a far cry from the humble campsites of old, as the royal retinue had to have large tents, with so much actual furniture it seemed at times that they were dragging the castle at Denerim along with them.

Such a display of excess must annoy the locals, Esme thought, although they were assured by advisors that a display of wealth and power was good for Ferelden. No one wanted to see their monarchs dragging through the mud like paupers, especially when they were headed to Orlais and must not make themselves into laughing stocks.

Sometimes she wondered if maintaining the status quo of extravagant nobility was truly wise, however.

Her biggest worry was traveling through the Hinterlands. The region was still rebuilding from the war that had torn it apart. Many people reacted with joy upon seeing their King and the Hero of Ferelden, but there was enough discontented rumblings about the fact that the King had allowed the Rebel Mages to come to Redcliffe in the first place to make their guards wary.

Still, they passed through their kingdom without major incident. If anyone threw an apple or a rock at the carriage or spat in the general direction of the King, Esme did not hear of it.

Most of their traveling time was spent playing I Spy with the landscape out the carriage windows, until Kieran picked a stack of skulls piled up alongside the road in the Hinterlands, and that was the end of that. Then they started playing Wicked Grace. Morrigan was a vicious opponent who won every hand, until Esme tossed the cards out the window in frustration. Morrigan’s laughter could be heard by everyone outside as the cards scattered to the wind.

A card fluttered towards Alistair and he reached out to catch it. When he turned it over, he saw that it was the Angel of the Death, the trump card. He let it go abruptly, and it fell to be trampled by the horses in the mud.

When they finally reached Val Royeaux everyone was tired and out of sorts, feeling as if they had been on the road for years instead of a couple weeks. The city was overwhelmed with the hordes of the faithful who had come to see Lady Cassandra become Divine Victoria. The Fereldens made their camp outside the city and the Orlesians made derisive jokes about the smell of dog being detectable for miles.

The Inquisition had their own camp, down a hill a ways but visible from the tent flaps when Esme poked her head outside. They received a note of invitation from Josephine Montilyet, on behalf of Inquisitor Adaar, asking the King and Queen to join them for a “small pre-coronation banquet” the night before the ceremony, and Esme wrote back to accept.

When they arrived, with a dozen soldiers escorts them, they found a young Qunari woman wearing a blood red coat, with a blue sash draped diagonally over her chest, and tall knee high leather boots over breeches. She sat on a large carved wooden bench, which Esme knew to be a Qunari throne, as if despite being born Tal-Vashoth she wanted to remind everyone where she came from. It hardly seemed necessary, as no one could fail to notice her large stature and curling, metal tipped horns.

An even larger Qunari male sat, or rather lounged, insouciantly, at her right hand. He was shirtless and scarred, with a patch over one eye and many dark tattoos stamped across his pearlescent white skin. If Esme hadn’t known better she might have thought they had stumbled into a delegation from Par Vollen.

Inquisitor Adaar shifted, her elbows resting on her knees in a languid, no-fucks-given sort of pose. She didn’t get up when they arrived, instead just looked them over and said with a curt nod, “King Alistair. We meet again. And this must be the fabled Hero of Ferelden.”

Esme couldn’t help but smile at that. “Please, no need to be so formal. You may call me Esme.”

The Inquisitor raised an eyebrow, tweaking her mouth into a wry grin, and said, “Titles, huh. They keep piling up till you forget your own name. Sure. Call me Adaar, then.”

Josephine came rushing forward anxiously, seeming acutely aware of how undiplomatic everyone was being.

She addressed both King and Queen with the proper honorifics and pleasantries, then she ushered them to a table which had been prepared for the Ferelden contingent. They sat down and let the rest of their party be introduced. They had brought a small number of nobles with them, as well as Morrigan and Kieran. When Morrigan stepped forward she got a warm reception from the Inquisitor. Both of the Tal-Vashoth admired her greatly, and the male (who went by the “name” Iron Bull) referred to her as, “Ataashi,” in a tone of guarded respect.

Kieran, who had brought Barkspawn with him, got a downright enthusiastic response. Adaar patted and baby-talked the puppy, asking him if he knew that he was a good boy.

Alistair leaned over, whispering to Esme, “I guess Ser Bumperton isn’t as cute as he once was. They didn’t even notice him.”

Esme shook her head in denial. “Oh hush,” she said, then bent down to stroke the old hound. She had almost not brought him, thinking she might leave him at camp so no one could make the easy jokes about Fereldens and dogs. But then she had decided to hell with anyone who didn’t respect a dog who had fought in the Fifth Blight, and the Battle of Denerim, and traveled the world, and was still up and kicking all these years later.

She slipped him a piece of meat off the trencher that sat in the middle of the table, and told him that he was better than ten little upstart puppies named Barkspawn.

Alistair just chuckled, reaching for an inviting looking turkey leg, but then he froze mid reach. Esme noticed his whole body go rigid, and looked up to follow his line of sight.

Across the tent, walking up towards the throne where Inquisitor Adaar presided over the banquet, was Grand Enchanter Fiona.

Esme had truly not expected her to be here. Yes, she was with the Inquisition, and was still considered the leader of the mages who were allied with that organization… but it seemed highly ironic that she would leave Skyhold to attend an event staged by the Grand Cathedral. After all, she was instrumental in the mage rebellion, calling for the decisive vote at Andoral’s Reach which had seen the mages declare themselves divorced from Chantry authority.

“What is she doing here,” Alistair muttered between gritted teeth, so quietly that only Esme could hear, despite the others taking their seats around them.

“I don’t know,” Esme said, quietly. “I’m as surprised as you are,” she added, afraid he would think she had known about it and was trying to trick him into some sort of reunion.

He dropped his arm back to his side without taking any food and just sat there, staring gimlet-eyed at Fiona. The elf woman walked up to Inquisitor Adaar and leaned over, whispering something to her. Adaar looked thoughtful and then responded, and the two women conferred for a moment or two before Fiona nodded and straightened up, turning to leave.

She caught sight of the royal party from Ferelden and hesitated, then shuffled towards them in a sidelong fashion. “King Alistair, Queen Esmeralda,” she said, with a slight bow for each of them. “Welcome.”

“Good evening, Grand Enchanter,” said Esme. Alistair seemed unable, or unwilling, to find any words.

“Ah!” said Morrigan, cheerfully, taking a seat next to Esme, “Tis Fiona. How refreshing to see another unabashed enemy of the Chantry being dragged to this insufferable event. I do not feel so horribly out of place, suddenly. How are you these days, Fiona?”

“Oh, Morrigan, hello,” said Fiona, furrowing her brow slightly, as if wondering why the former Imperial Liaison to the Inquisition was sitting now beside the Queen of Ferelden. “I am not an unabashed enemy of the Chantry…”

“Really? Tis a pity. If you are not, then who is? Well, besides that fellow who blew up the Kirkwall Chantry, I suppose…”

 _Anders,_ Esme thought, _one of my very first Grey Warden conscripts… I wonder how he is doing these days?_ She remained silent, however, as was her habit when it came to that subject. Ever since she had idly remarked, “Oh, Anders? I know him… good friend of mine; I gave him a kitten once,” when she overheard a pair of nobles gossiping about him and the events in Kirkwall at court, and had gotten the most horrified scandalized looks, she had decided it was prudent to keep it to herself, even among friends.

Fiona shook her head in response to Morrigan, and said, “I hope that the mages can work together with Divine Victoria to change the way things are done. Only time will tell if we are able to return to the Chantry with reassurances that reforms will be made, or must continue to make our own way. In the meantime, I am here on behalf of the mages of the Inquisition, to pay my respects.”

“Hm, wise, I suppose. Though you won’t see me stepping into any tower or circle or guild, anytime soon,” said Morrigan airly, reaching out to grab the same turkey leg which Alistair had abandoned. “New Divine and new flowery promises, or no, tis a pretty pen to keep a mage caged in. Hm, that sounds like a song. Perhaps I should find Leliana and ask her to pluck me a few notes to go with my heretical musings.”

“Uhm, yes, perhaps…” Fiona said, looking at Morrigan dubiously, before her gaze slid towards Alistair. “Well, I must be going.”

“Good night, Grand Enchanter,” said Esme, standing respectfully and giving her a small curtsey.

“Oh, you are too kind, Your Majesty,” said Fiona, while Morrigan rolled her eyes expressively and took a long drink of wine. Alistair was frozen in place, not having moved or changed his expression from an uncomfortable stare the entire time. His eye was starting to twitch.

Fiona bowed as she was backing up, then turned reluctantly and started walking towards the open end of the tent that led out into the warm Orlesian night.

“Wait,” said Alistair at last, abruptly standing up, struggling a little to push his chair back on the uneven ground. He finally kicked it aside and took a few long steps after the elf.

Morrigan’s eyebrows shot up over the rim of her goblet, and Esme put one hand to her forehead, praying to whatever gods might exist that he wasn’t about to make a scene.

“Y-yes?” said Fiona, looking up at him warily. He towered above her, all Theirin height, looking never more like a clumsy oafish shemlin than in that moment. It even made Esme second guess what she had come to believe.

“You lost something at Redcliffe Castle,” he said.

“Oh? I don’t recall… anything?” Fiona shook her head.

He reached inside his collar and drew out the amulet. “Does this look familiar?” he asked, holding it out.

She took the amulet in one hand and peered at it. “No,” she said, her face an unreadable mask. “I am afraid not. This appears to be an Amulet of Andraste.”

“You’ve never owned an amulet like this?”

“I… well, not that I recall.” She let the amulet drop back down, swinging from its chain which Alistair still clutched in one trembling hand.

“You’re sure?”

Fiona folded her hands and fidgeted, looking at the ground, then around at the other occupants of the large tent, who were all eating and drinking and laughing amongst themselves. Only Adaar seemed to have taken notice, her long horns titled to the side, a fittingly inquisitive gleam in her eyes. Esme wondered if she should intervene, or if that would make it even more awkward. At the moment all anyone need know or suspect is that Fiona and Alistair were still at odds over Redcliffe.

“Perhaps once, when I was a young girl,” Fiona said. “When I first joined a Circle, it is possible that I was given an amulet such as this, since this is the mark of the Chantry. If I ever possessed such a thing, I did not keep it long.”

“Why not?”

“Well, uh, I am an elf. We do not worship the Maker, as you humans do. Even those of us who come under the control of the Chantry because we are mages, do not believe in Andraste’s divinity quite as humans do. Some honor her for freeing the slaves and granting the Dales to the elves, but the Exalted Marches have soured our fondness for the Andrastan religion. Surely you understand.”

“Thanks for the history lesson.”

“Forgive me, I so often must remind the humans around me that not everyone believes in the Maker.”

“You don’t have much use for humans, do you,” he said, leveling it more as an accusation than a question.

“I…” Fiona began, then uttered a nervous, defensive little laugh, the first time Esme had heard her make a sound even approaching mirth. “I think that is an odd thing to say. Just because I do not worship your human god or venerate his prophet? No, I have no particular problem with humans. I have had many human friends. Many of them not even mages.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Alistair,” Esme called out, “let the Grand Enchanter get back to her work, won’t you? There are some very… um, fine looking cheeses over here; come eat with us.”

“This amulet is not mine,” said Fiona, lifting her chin and squaring her shoulders. “I am sorry if you thought otherwise, King Alistair. It is a human thing, and belongs to the human world, I am afraid.”

“I see.” He snatched it back into his palm, but did not put it back around his neck. He turned away from her, and she hastened out of the tent as fast as her feet could carry her without running outright.

When Alistair sat back down at the table, Morrigan, who was in the middle of pouring herself another goblet of wine, said, “What in the name of Andraste’s tits was that all about? Since when do you take it upon yourself to harangue elves about religious differences?”

“Nothing,” he said, curtly, motioning for her to pass the tankard of wine his way.

“Oh, that certainly was _something,”_ she said, handing it over, “but no matter, cling to your mystery. I shall get it out of you later.”

“No, you won’t.”

“Leave it be,” said Esme, quietly.

“How dire,” Morrigan observed, but then turned away, glancing around the tent for Kieran.

Just then, a blonde, clean shaven dwarf with an unbuttoned shirt that exposed a chestful of abundantly curling hair, walked up to them with his arms outstretched, saying, “Alistair! My friend, you look like you could use a drink.”

“Varric,” said Alistair, with a smile. He held up the tankard, “That’s the idea.”

“Pssh, none of that weak wine tonight,” Varric said. “Iron Bull brought a few casks of the good stuff, premium Maraas-Lok straight from Par Vollen. It’s not an Inquisition party until he breaks those out.” He strolled up to the table and put one foot up on an empty chair, leaning forward casually and smiling. “How have you been?”

“Never better,” Alistair told him, affecting an easy laugh, all traces of his earlier apoplexy gone. “You?”

“Taking it one day at a time, my friend. One day at a time.”

Esme cleared her throat quietly, and Varric dropped his foot from the chair, coming round to stand by her. He bowed. “Where are my manners? Varric Tethras, at your service. Merchant, novelist, man-about-town… well dwarf-about-town, anyway.” He took her hand and brushed a kiss across her fingers, adding, “And you must be the breathtaking, elusive Esmeralda. I have seen your portrait but it does not do you justice, Your Majesty.”

“I recognized you from the portrait on your books,” said Esme.

He put one hand to his chest. “You’ve read my books? I’m honored beyond words. We must speak more of this.”

“Alright, it’s a little early in the night to try to steal my wife,” Alistair interrupted, good naturedly.

“Oh, don’t worry,” said Morrigan, “he’s a tease. All flirtation and no follow through.”

“Morrigan,” Varric turned to her with a smile and a wink, “don’t give away all my secrets.”

Varric’s arrival and Fiona’s departure seemed to signify that the night was going to turn out well, after all.

And it did go rather well, for a time.

The Iron Bull became quite a bit friendlier when Alistair accepted a drinking challenge he laid down. When the King threw back several steins of the strong Qunari brew and didn’t show signs of having any difficulty with it, Iron Bull became downright impressed. He did not seem to realize that a Grey Warden’s capacity for alcohol intake was easily twice that of most people, and so he greatly approved of Alistair for this matter alone.

Esme begged out of the drinking contests. She had the Grey Warden stamina too, but she had become mindful of what she ate and drank now that she was pregnant. That, and also Morrigan had already started to hit the wine heavily early in the night, which was very unlike her. Something about being surrounded by Inquisition agents again made her drink as if she wanted to forget. Esme felt that someone had to keep their wits firmly about them. They were not, after all, on home turf, safe within Denerim’s walls where they could do (almost) as they pleased.

Eventually, they made their way back to the Ferelden camp, far and away past Kieran’s normal bedtime. The night had finally drawn to a close when Morrigan and Alistair began to argue about whether Kieran should be allowed to partake in the festivities with a pint of ale, and Esme took that as the cue for everyone to go “home.”

When they were alone back in their tent, and the glow of camaraderie and bountiful flowing alcohol began to wear off, Alistair fell into a brooding, contemplative silence. He took out the amulet again, which he had stuffed angrily in a pocket rather than wearing. He let it fall from hand to hand, slowly, the chain following after the small disc like a waterfall. The _chink chink chink_ of it was the only sound for a moment.

“I don’t want this anymore,” he said, at last, and turned to offer it to Esme. “Get rid of it for me.”

“Why?”

“I can’t look at it anymore.”

She sighed and took it. “You regretted throwing it away the first time, remember?”

“Mind games,” he said, darkly. “It’s all just mind games, now. And lies. It doesn’t matter anymore. Either they lied to me all my life or she told you lies to get into my head. And it’s working.”

“I’ll keep it until you want it again.”

“I won’t.”

“Alistair… I’m sorry. I wish I’d never told you. I should have left well enough alone.”

“No, no, you were right to tell me. You’re the only person I trust, Esme. The only one.” He lay down with his head in her lap and closed his eyes. “I just can’t figure it out. What is she playing at, what does she want? If it’s all a plot to discredit me then what is she waiting for? When will she strike?” His words slurred together, the drink deepening his paranoia and making him agitated.

“There’s no plot,” Esme said wearily, running a hand through his hair, trying to calm and soothe.

“No plot,” he murmured, “if there’s no plot then it’s true, and my whole life is a lie. What if I admitted it to everyone, Esme… just got up in front of the Landsmeet and told them who their King really is. I wouldn’t be King anymore. You wouldn’t be Queen. Maybe it would be for the best. We could go anywhere, we could do anything, we could be anyone.”

“Just run away from it all?”

“Yes. In disgrace.”

Morrigan entered the tent, then, cautiously creeping in through the back like a shadow, albeit a drunken one. She crawled across the furs and pillows towards them, saying, “Kieran finally sleeps. He was so wound up from all the people and the sweets… but he was quite happy.” She flopped down ungracefully next to Esme. “What is this,” she commented, looking upon the two of them; at the way Alistair’s head was cradled in Esme’s lap, “are we babying King Alistair tonight?”

She reached out to pat his cheek, though it seemed more like a few clumsy slaps than a gentle caress.

“I’m not in the mood for you,” Alistair muttered, “or your… wit.”

“Certainly not in the mood for wit of any kind,” said Morrigan, then she lay down and groaned, “Uhhhh, I should know better than to try to out drink a dwarf, a pair of Qunari, a Tevinter, and a Grey Warden. I haven’t felt this near to death since… oh since I was last near to death.” She laughed, apparently finding that quite humorous.

“I’ve never seen you drink like that,” Esme observed. She hadn’t even thought of Morrigan as someone who _could_ get drunk, before tonight. “Are you alright?”

“Oh, I’m wonderful, thank you for asking,” Morrigan moaned into the blankets. “I love nothing more than being surrounded by all my old Inquisition friends.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Ugh, Esme, please, keep on mothering poor Alistair and let me be sick in peace.”

“You have your own tent,” Alistair pointed out, “if you wanted peace and quiet.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

“Is that a dare or a request?”

“You’re drunk,” he responded disdainfully, as if he was not also. He turned his head away.

“Pish posh,” Morrigan declared, her tone lofty. Esme waited for some kind of follow up, but nothing came. Morrigan just slumped against her and went quiet.

Esme lay back against the pillows, so that her head rested against Morrigan’s. Morrigan shifted so that she could lay her cheek on Esme’s shoulder.

“Are you alright?” Esme asked. “Truly?”

“She’s gone,” Morrigan said, softly. “Gone and I should be glad. I _am_ glad. Am I not?”

“I don’t know.”

“I keep thinking one day she’ll come slinking out from my bedroom mirror and laugh at me for thinking she could ever die. And I’d kill her, kill her in a heartbeat if she came for Kieran. But I haven’t seen her since that day in the Fade, and I when I call… she does not come. She said she would always be there should I need her, and yet she is not. I do not know what happened. I am afraid.”

“You hated your mother,” said Alistair, turning back towards her with an annoyed huff. “You even asked us to kill her. Good riddance to bad news.”

“I don’t expect you to understand,” Morrigan said, her tone going from vulnerable to cold in a flash.

He sat up. “What would you say to her if she were still alive?”

“I would ask for answers, though she would give me none, or if she did, it would only lead to more questions. That is her way, I know, but I would still ask. Was she even my mother, is one question. I think I would like to know, though it doesn't really matter. All I did as a child was ask, ask, ask, and she would fill my head with all these things that could have been truth, could have been lies. I’d want truth, now, if I could get it.”

Alistair listened to all of this, then shook his head and scrubbed a hand across his face. “I need to take a walk,” he announced, getting to his feet. “I’ll be back.”

“Where are you going?”

“Nowhere,” he said, making his way unsteadily towards the tent flaps.

“Alistair, come back,” Esme said, holding out a hand to beckon him.

He didn’t listen, ducking outside instead.

“Oh let him go,” Morrigan said, waving him off dismissively, “let him take his long walks and brood up at the moon.” She put her arm around Esme’s waste and snuggled into her bosom, saying, “Now I’ve got you all to myself.”

“No,” Esme said, disentangling herself. “He’s going to do something stupid. I must stop him.”

“Well I mustn’t,” Morrigan grumbled, and she stretched out amongst the pillows as Esme got up.

She rushed outside and looked around. She didn’t see him anywhere at first, and wondered how he could have gotten so far so soon, but then she spotted him. He was standing unsteadily looking down the long hill at the Inquisition camp spread out far below. The lights from their lanterns and campfires were warm yellow and orange smudges in the darkness.

“Alistair,” she hissed, wondering if she was going to have to set their own guards to restraining the King. What horrible gossip that would cause. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Whatever it is you’re thinking.”

He turned back to her. “I’d like to hear it from her. Don’t you think I deserve that? It’s not that I don’t believe you that she said what she said, but if she’s going to go round making those sorts of claims she should have the decency to do it to my face. Don’t you think?”

“And what are you going to do?” She walked up to him and clutched at his shirt, as if to stop him from just booking it down the hill. “Are you going to march down into the Inquisition camp and sneak past all of their guards until you find the Mages and roust their leader from her sleep?”

“I had thought of it. I’ll bet I could do it. Their perimeter did not appear well guarded. I could take a few of them out.”

“No, you shall not.”

“You’re not the boss of me,” he slurred, tugging away from her grasp.

“I am, and I am not going to let you cause an international incident on the outskirts of Val Bloody Royeaux!” She gave him a shake, trying to jostle some sense into his drunken head.

“I have to get to the bottom of this,” he said stubbornly. “I need to confront her directly. No more sideways bullshit and mind games.”

“Remember who you are! You represent all of Ferelden; you cannot just storm into that camp demanding answers like you’re the blasted Iron Bull.”

He laughed, but leaned forward, resting his head against hers, folding into her arms. “I can never forget who I am, dear wife. Everyone is always reminding me of my _Kingly_ duty.”

“Alistair, please. If you must talk to her again, do it tomorrow, when it’s daylight and you’re sober.”

He nodded reluctantly, and let himself be led back to the tent, defeated and tired.

He did not talk to Fiona again.

The next day, half of them hungover and bleary-eyed, heads pounding, mouths dry, eyes fragile, they sat through the long ceremony naming and anointing the new Divine.

This was followed by a staid and formal banquet at the Cathedral, nothing like the raucous affair the Inquisition had hosted the night before.

Fiona was nowhere to be seen, at either event.

When Esme asked if he wanted to go back to the Inquisition camp to look for her, Alistair said no. No, he did not.

 

* * *

 

Esme suffered a miscarriage when they returned to Denerim.

She never thought she could bleed so much. The child itself was no bigger than a grape, withered like a raisin, almost lost amidst all the blood and tissue that would not seem to stop flowing.

The midwife attending to her turned to one of the servants as she wrung out a bloody rag in a basin of dark red water, said, “The queen’s own fault, this is. She should never have traveled to Orlais in her condition, and her so old.”

She did not know that the queen’s arcane advisor was near enough to hear. It took Morrigan a moment to round on her, slapping her so hard across the face that her hand made a cracking noise like a whip striking an errant horse. The next thing the woman knew, stars swam through her vision and the blood dripping into the basin was her own.

“Do not speak thus of your Queen,” said Morrigan, her voice as cold as a winter spell, golden eyes like daggers made of amber and obsidian. “Leave. I do not want to see your face again.”

The midwife stumbled away, holding her swelling face. If she questioned Morrigan’s authority to dismiss servants from the Queen’s service, she dared not voice it then, and knew better than to complain to the King about it. In private and in her cups, she would rail against “that witch” for years to come, saying “it was her cursed that queen and made her bleed out her children, mark my words,” but she did not step back foot into the castle again.

Esme did not shed tears the first time. She lay in bed for days, pale and drawn, but then roused herself and held her head up high. Few people even knew the Queen had been with child, and were only told that she had taken ill after the arduous journey to and from Val Royeaux. She did not want to seem a weak and wasting queen.

She could feel Alistair and Morrigan’s eyes upon her at all times, even when neither of them were in the room. It was as if they watched her constantly, waiting for tears. But she didn’t show them. Alistair had sat by her bedside holding her hand when she was “sickly” and asked if she was alright so many times she wanted to scream at him, but she didn’t scream. She smiled instead, as brave and resolute as she could, and only said, “I know it’s possible now. The next time I will do better.”

“The next time…” he echoed, looking pained.

She struggled to sit up straighter, acutely aware of how weak and frightening she must look, and said, “Yes. No travelling. I will do everything right, and it will be fine.”

“This wasn’t your fault.”

She just shook her head. He didn’t understand. It was worse to have done nothing wrong.

 

* * *

_9:43 Dragon_

* * *

 

 The next time, she did do better.

She passed the eleventh week, the week her first child had been lost, and all was well. She rested, feeling restless, but was determined not to do anything wrong this time. She retreated from the court, washed her hands of all pressing social and political responsibilities that may cause her stress, and forswore all rich foods and drink. She did not ride or run or dance, though she was told that taking leisurely walks around the garden at times would do her good, and so she did.

She locked Ser Bumperton out of her chambers, because she was told that dogs carried all manner of disease and parasites. The first few days of that, her hound lay outside her door whining and sobbing, until Alistair dragged him away and tried to make it up to him by taking him to the kitchen and stuffing him full with all manner of meats and cheeses. Kieran and Barkspawn tried to cheer the old dog up as well, but even being allowed to sleep in Kieran’s bed did not stop him from heavy, ponderous sighs.

Esme’s belly began to swell, and it was impossible to keep the servants from knowing that the queen was expecting, so soon all of Denerim and then Ferelden knew. A letter of congratulations arrived from Empress Celene one day, and Morrigan snatched it out of Alistair’s hand while he was in the middle of reading it.

“What are you doing?” he protested.

“Tis bad luck,” she said. “Don’t you know anything?”

“Apparently not, no, I’m just too stupid to live,” he said bitterly.

“Well it is bad luck,” she snapped, taking the letter and its broken seal over to the fireplace. “Tis bad luck to congratulate a mother on her child before it is born.”

“That’s ridiculous. No child would ever be born if that were true.”

“Do you want to risk it?” she said, harshly, even though before now she would have agreed with him, agreed and scoffed at superstitious idiots who couldn’t tell real magic from old wives tales.

“No,” he said, staring at the thick vellum as it curled and disintegrated in the flames.

“I’m sure twill be fine,” she said, taking a deep breath to calm her nerves. “Esme didn’t read it, so it doesn’t count.”

He just looked at her as if she had gone insane, and said nothing.

Let him have his sidelong looks; he had done his part for Esme already and he didn’t have to be the one who bore all the blame if she could not deliver the child. Morrigan felt as if it were all on her, the hedge witch, the arcane advisor, the court mage, whatever it was she was called, she was expected to guide the queen through a safe and successful birthing or she was the evil maleficar who was poisoning the cradle.

Soon, Esme was able to feel the stirring of the baby inside her. There was turning, and pushing, and kicking.

And then, there was nothing.

In the fifth month, she gave birth to a dead child. This time, Morrigan was the only one to attend her, for the other servants, healers, and midwives were so terrified of the witch’s wrath that they fled once it was apparent that the queen’s child would not be alive.

Alistair was there, though he had not been the first time. In Ferelden it was not considered “seemly” for the father to be present, and the first time the miscarriage had happened so quickly that he’d not even had a chance to reach her before it was done. This time, no one who valued their life could have kept him out.

In a haze of pain and blood loss, Esme asked to see the child, but Morrigan only stood there with her back to her. She was hunched, her shoulder blades protruding, as she held something at an odd angle, her head bent over it. She ignored Esme as if she could not hear.

Esme was too tired and wracked with pain to focus, and she felt that this was all happening in a dream.

Ser Bumperton scratched and whined at the door, and after a while Alistair went to let him in. The hound went over to where Esme had fallen into an exhausted, feverish slumber, and jumped up onto the bed with no one to tell him he couldn’t. He curled up next to her and laid his head on her shoulder, and sighed.

Morrigan stirred herself, wrapping up the half formed baby in the bloodied blankets from the bed, and then busied herself with a grim face, casting healing spells over Esme. Alistair just held Esme and cried into her hair, and Morrigan resisted the urge to snap at him and tell him not to be so bloody useless.

It was all left to her, to tend to Esme, to clean up, to shout for the hiding servants to come and do their duty or else she’d see them all beheaded for treason. The entire time, she was mindful of the bundle laid out on the table, and when one servant tried to pick it up, she slapped her away. “Not that,” she said. “I will take care of that.”

The girl looked at her with such naked terror that she thought she must seem an actual dragon. She didn’t care.

Once she was satisfied that there were servants enough to tend to Esme, who was not in any danger thanks to her healing ministrations, and was now sleeping as peacefully as could be expected under such circumstances, she gathered up the small bundle and quietly left the room.

Alistair had pulled himself together enough to stop openly sobbing when the servants came back, as if he remembered that he was still the King and couldn’t be seen like that. Esme would not want that. He still sat on the bed, holding her as she slept, stroking her hair. It was as it always had been, Morrigan thought, with one glance back. The dog, and Alistair, fighting over who got to cuddle and coddle Esme in her moments of need, while Morrigan worked to make sure everything did not fall apart. That was how it had been during the Blight, that was how it was now.

She slipped unnoticed from the room and hurried down the darkened hallway. She did not go to her chambers, instead heading down towards the crypt.

The Theirins of Ferelden were Andrastan, and burned rather than buried their dead, but they kept a mausoleum for the ashes. She went past many alcoves in the walls where the urns sat, some with plaques or statues indicating who was interred in each jar. She carried a torch in one hand, lighting sconces on the walls as she went. The baby was small and light enough to carry in one arm, swaddled up in the bloodied sheets.

Morrigan came to a small room in the undercroft where there was a brazier, and she set the bundle aside and worked to light a fire and stoke it till it was quite hot. She did not use magic, instead lighting the coals with the torch she had brought. The fire must be natural.

When it was right, she took a deep breath and went to the spot where she had left the bundle laid upon a slab. Twas only a dead body, of which she had seen many, she told herself, but her hands shook as she pulled aside the wraps.

She could not simply toss it, wrapped, into the flames. Twould not do. But the sight of it made her weep.

She picked it up and turned towards the fire, tears on her cheeks, when she heard her name spoken from the shadows behind her.

He must have used some templar trick to sneak up on her, she thought. Surely it wasn’t simply because she was so upset that she was slipping and not paying attention to her surroundings.

She turned round and knew how bad this looked, she with bloody hands holding the dead child above the brazier.

Alistair stepped from the shadows. He looked down at the child she held out, his face an unreadable, expressionless mask. After a long, interminable moment of silence, he said, “It’s an abomination.”

“No,” she denied. “Tis only a stillborn child.”

He lifted his eyes to her face. “So they all look like that.”

Morrigan didn’t know. She was no midwife. She could not find words. The child had mottled deep blue and chalk white skin, with malformed, twisted limbs, and a terrifying visage, eyeless with a gaping mouth that was frozen open in a silent scream. The blood which clung to it was black and slimy.

“It looks like a darkspawn,” he said, and his voice broke.

That was, she feared, closer to the truth than his first assumption. “Tis human, not darkspawn,” she said, firmly. “But tis the taint which killed it in the womb.”

Her arms were tiring, as light as the baby was. Alistair seemed calm enough, so she turned back towards the brazier. “What are you doing?” he asked.

“Tis dead,” she said, “and must be burnt.”

It was the way of the Andrastans, and she hoped he would not question further, but of course, he did. “Not like this,” he said. “In the dark, all alone. There needs to be… funeral rites. A revered mother to say the Chant of Light, an urn—”

“Do you want anyone else to see this?” she asked, knowing her words were harsh. She gave him a hard look. “Do you want the servants and the Chantry sisters to look at your darkspawn baby and spread the news to all of Thedas?”

He ignored this altogether and said, “Esme woke up and asked me where the baby was. She was upset. She almost crawled out of bed. I promised I’d go find you and... “ he lifted one hand, waved it helplessly, let it drop, and said nothing more.

“She cannot see this,” Morrigan said, horrified. She should have put a sleeping spell on Esme, instead of merely trusting to exhaustion to keep her in bed. “Surely you know that.”

“You are doing something down here. Some ritual. I’m not stupid, Morrigan. You’re—”

“Tis no ritual,” she denied, angrily. “I am making sure Esme does not see it, I am making sure that no one else sees it.”

“You were going to make sure I didn’t see it.”

“And you should be thanking me. Is this what you wanted to see?” she held the child up, took a step towards him, and was gratified to see him recoil slightly before holding his ground. “Twas a mercy to take this away, tis a mercy to burn it without ceremony. Now go back and tell Esme what you must, but let her sleep without this nightmare in her memory.”

“No,” he said, eyes hard. “Burn it if you have to, but I’m going to watch you do it; I’m going to make sure you don’t help yourself to its blood or chant something over it or… or anything.”

She scoffed at him, channeling all her fear and nervousness into scorn so he did not see how her hands were trembling.

She stepped up to the brazier and placed the monstrous baby upon the burning coals. Then She took a step back and watched it in silence No chants, no hand movements, nothing that could make Alistair scream about blood magic or evil incantations.

He stood silently beside her as the flames consumed the small, twisted body. The flames were supposed to carry its soul to the Maker, as Andraste had been transported to Him when her body was consumed by the pyre. That was, if you believed in that sort of thing—and Morrigan did not, nor did she know if Alistair truly did. She did not even know if Esme believed, though she had always thought she did not, that she only followed the way of the Andrastans in a perfunctory manner. She’d always had the open minded pragmatism of someone who would pray to any god who proved themselves useful, and Morrigan had liked that about her.

She did not believe. She was a daughter of Flemeth, of Mythal, and she did not even know if she believed in that. But part of her hoped that if this unfortunate misbegotten child had a soul, the flames were carrying it away to a better place.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you cry before,” said Alistair, in a curious tone.

She wiped at her cheeks with the back of her forearm, careful not to touch her face with her hands, still bloody. He was the last person on the face of the earth she wanted to see her crying, so of course the daft fool had never seen her cry before. There was no denying it, though. All she said was, “Tis hard.”

“Well,” he said, softly, “it’s over now.”

She turned from the flames to look at him again. “What do you mean?”

“After this… it’s proof that we can’t have a baby,” he said, and he sounded relieved. “Not with the taint.”

Morrigan shook her head. “She’ll want to try again, you know that.”

“No,” he denied. “Not after this.”

“Yes. Especially after this. Tis almost as if you don’t know Esme at all.”

“I know her better than you.”

“Debatable.” Morrigan moved over to where the pile of dirty sheets lay and cleaned her hands off as best she could on one last unsoiled corner. As she did so, she said, “Has she ever given up on anything? Did she give up on fighting the Blight? Did she give up on her revenge against the Howes? Did she give up on making you King? Has she given up on finding a cure for the taint?” She threw the sheet down. Her hands still felt dirty. “No. In fact, she thinks that this, that having a child, will cure her. I don’t know why but she is set on it and so she will not give up.”

“You don’t know why she thinks that?” he asked, raising both eyebrows in surprise. “I thought she would have told you by now. I thought she told you everything.”

She shook her head.

He sighed miserably, and said, “When I was born, my mother was cured of the taint. She thinks the same thing will happen again.”

Morrigan frowned. “I thought your mother died.”

“No,” he said, with maddening simplicity.

Her frown deepened. “I… I am sorry, Alistair, I must admit I never paid that much attention to the story of your life, but wasn’t your mother a serving girl in the castle who died… giving birth… to you?”

“No. She was a Grey Warden, until she wasn’t tainted anymore, and then she wasn’t a Warden anymore.”

“Like Grand Enchanter Fiona.”

“Yes, exactly like her. Her, in fact.”

Morrigan felt a great wave of frustration flow through her, and it was all she could do not to box his ears or slap him. The fact that neither of them had seen fit to tell her this incredibly significant fact before, while expecting her to work her magic to make Esme conceive and carry a child, was infuriating.

But instead of striking him, she laughed. “Of course. You hate her so personally; I had wondered why, but now it all makes sense.”

“Does it? I’m glad you think so. It makes no sense to me.”

Morrigan barely heard him. She started to pace. “This may not be good news, though it does give me more information to work with. The fact that Fiona is an elf and Esme is not, could explain why the magic in your bloodline cured her and is not having any effect on Esme.”

“Or there’s the fact that my father was not tainted, and I am,” he said.

She paused, and in her thoughtfulness, almost contradicted him. But she caught herself just in time. “Yes, yes, you’re right,” she said. “Still, I have to think on this.”

“No, you don’t. It doesn’t matter, because we’re not doing this anymore. I don’t care if Esme wants to kill herself this way, I’m not going to have any part in it. Not anymore.”

“She was in no real danger,” Morrigan said. “I was there to heal her.”

“No. I won’t do this anymore. I won’t watch Esme almost die, over and over, and then go burn my demon offspring in secret,” he said, his voice rising angrily. “None of this is natural, or right. And I know that Esme doesn’t like admitting defeat, but she can’t do this without me. And she can’t do it without your magic. If we both refuse to prolong this madness, that will be it. That will be the end of it.”

Morrigan looked back at the brazier, at the lump of child shaped ashes. “You may refuse, but I made her a promise,” she said. “I’ve no interest in talking you into this, Alistair. But I know Esme and I know that she will.”

“I thought you cared about her.”

“I do.”

“You can’t fix everything with a healing spell. She pretends she’s strong but you’re an idiot if you think this will end well.”

“I think—” she began to barrell into an insulting retort, a well worn jab, a tried and true imprecation, but then she stopped, took a breath, and said, “I think you should give her one more chance. You should give _me_ one more chance. If it fails again, then… I will leave.” She squared her shoulders. “Yes. I’ll leave Ferelden.”

“You would desert Esme and leave me to pick up the broken pieces? Wow. I’m thrilled by the sound of this.”

She faltered. “I thought you would want me to go. And if I’m gone, well, no more magic.”

“I don’t want you to leave. I want you to be a voice of reason instead of indulging and encouraging this madness.”

“Tis not madness. Tis hope.”

“Tell me that when we’re not in the crypt.”

“I shall.”

“What am I going to tell Esme,” he said, “that we burned the body without letting her see it because it was such a horror…?”

Morrigan closed her eyes. She knew that denying Esme the sight of her child would make her angry. It was small comfort to now have Alistair to share in the blame. “I do not think we can lie to her. Twill be hard, but she will forgive. Eventually.”

“And yet you still want to do this all over again.”

“I do not want to. I have to. I promised I would do everything in my power to help her.”

“Just tell me it will all be worth it, in the end.”

“Twill all be worth it, in the end.”

The assurance came easily to her lips. After all, she had been telling herself that for many months now.

“Go,” she said. “Esme has been alone too long, you should return to her.”

“And you?”

“Later.”

He looked to brazier, then back to her. She returned his gaze without flinching, refusing to acknowledge the suspicion there. Finally, he just nodded, and turned to go. She watched him walk past the urns of his ancestors, slowly, and then when he was gone, she let out a long breath and sat down on the floor.

She waited for the fire to burn down and the ashes to cool, then gathered them up in the sheets, which she had folded over to hide the blood stains. Then she carried the sack of ashes out of the crypt, and hid it within her chambers. Part of it she would give to Esme later to be placed in an urn, but some of it she kept in that hidden place.

Esme has asked her to do all she could. And she would.

But she didn’t tell Esme all that she did. She knew there some things the Queen wouldn’t want to know. There were some things Alistair would think unforgivable and evil.

They had once fed the purported ashes of Andraste to Eamon Guerrin in order to heal him. Alistair had been willing then to do a gruesome thing to save a man who had raised him, and Esme hadn’t even flinched at the idea. But the ashes of their own child… Morrigan knew better than to tell them what she was doing with that.

Just as she had known better than to tell them that she had been putting Kieran’s blood into Esme’s tonics.

She would never hurt her son. Never. But there was no other untainted scion of Calenhad that she knew of, much less one who was willing to prick a finger at her request.

He lost more blood skinning a knee while playing in the yard. Barkspawn drew more blood nipping playfully at his hands.

She told herself this as she imagined the angry objections she would get from Alistair if he knew. He would say she was just like Flemeth. But she was not just like Flemeth, using her child as a tool, a vessel, an object. She was better than that.

Kieran was coming to no harm. He was happy. He was happier than she was.

She told him that she needed the blood to work magic but not to ask what she needed it for, and never to tell anyone, for blood magic was still a forbidden art. She taught her son that blood magic was not inherently evil, that it was only the excessive use of it that brought others to harm and led to things like sacrifices and abominations. And that was the problem of it: the more blood one used the more power one had, and there would always be those who lusted for unlimited power, so for some, no amount of bloodshed would ever be enough. And so blood mages would always be feared and hated.

Kieran was nearly twelve and had not yet shown signs of having magic. Morrigan often wondered if Flemeth had taken that from him when she took Urthemiel’s soul. Most parents in Ferelden would be relieved for magic to pass their child by, but Morrigan was a little disappointed. She did not think magic was a curse. Twas a blessing. She could not imagine living without it. She had hoped to pass down all that she had learned from her mother to her son, one day.

And to think, he had a powerful and influential mage for a grandmother on his father's side, as well. By all rights he should have inherited the gift. But there was still time. Perhaps it would come to him later than most. Twas said late bloomers were all the more powerful. If he was to be powerful, he must also be wise.

She looked Esme in the eye and told her the blood came from no one she knew. She thought Esme might be disgusted by the idea of drinking the blood of a child she knew and loved, even if she was more open minded than most about such things. But mostly Morrigan wanted to spare her the trouble of having to lie to Alistair about it.

Morrigan did not think any of this made her like Flemeth.

But she wished her mother were still there, now.

Flemeth, Mythal, whoever she really was.

She would know how to fix this, Morrigan thought.

She would know some secret magic that she had never taught her daughters or written in her grimoire, which would hold the answers to giving Esme what she wanted. There might be a price to pay, there always was with Flemeth’s gifts, but at least there would be a chance. There would be a choice.

But Flemeth was dead and Mythal was gone. Yavana rotted in a swamp. There was just Morrigan, now.

 

* * *

 

Esme fell back asleep once she sent Alistair after Morrigan. She did not know how long she slept, just that she dreamt of dragons, and awoke to find Ser Bumperton still unmoved from her side, and Alistair returned.

He took her hand and told her, haltingly, that they had given the baby a funeral already, and that there was no body left to show her. There was something hiding behind his words, a thing he was not telling her, and she asked, “Why? Why would you do that? I wanted to see it… to see… my child.”

She could barely get the words out, falling back against the pillows.

He didn’t answer her, instead just shushing her and telling her to rest. It would have made her angry, had she the energy for rage. How could they do this to her? How could they take her baby and just throw it away?

She did not realize she was crying until Ser Bumperton licked the tears from her face.

The next time she awoke, from strange and feverish dreams, Morrigan was the one who sat by her bedside. She held a cool hand to Esme’s face and offered her a drink of water, or perhaps it was another healing potion.

She didn’t ask Morrigan _why,_ instead she only asked if the child had been a boy or a girl. Morrigan hesitated for a moment and then said, “A girl. Twas a girl.”

“Where is she?”

“I… I have the ashes,” said Morrigan. “I thought you would want to keep them.”

Esme stared at the bed canopy above her head. “She was a Theirin princess,” she said, quietly. “She will go in the crypt with all the others.”

“Yes, of course.”

“I must name her.” Esme sat up, ignoring Ser Bumperton’s concerned whine. She looked around. “Where is Alistair?”

“Sleeping. He sat up watching over you for a long time,” Morrigan said.

“I was going to name her Elissa,” said Esme. “It’s an old Cousland name. It’s my name. One of them, anyway.” She had not voiced that thought out loud, before. It was bad luck to name a child before its birth. She supposed there could be no further harm in naming it after its death.

Morrigan just nodded, then said she was going to get her something to eat. She placed a gentle kiss on her forehead before she went.

She returned with a tray. On it was a bowl of hot porridge, the saddest of meals, and Esme looked at it, wondering if Morrigan thought she would be too devastated for something with form and flavor. She found herself wishing for bread, or meat, or cheese… or an entire cask of wine. But she just took the spoon from Morrigan and ate as if in a trance.

Later, the ashes of the child were placed in an urn and set in an alcove in the crypt, just as Esme wished. The urn itself was engraved with two crests, side by side, Theirin and Cousland. A silver plaque was set upon the wall, reading:

 

_Elissa Theirin_   
_Daughter of King Alistair and Queen Esmeralda_   
_Born 9 Harvestmere 9:43 Dragon_   
_Died 9 Harvestmere 9:43 Dragon_

 

The urn sat in an alcove directly across from last Theirin whose ashes had been laid to rest there: Cailan, son of Maric and Rowan. Esme remembered burning the King upon the bridge at Ostagar, then helping Alistair gather up his ashes to take back to Denerim. Morrigan had been there, also. Three of them had burned Cailan, but only two had burned Elissa.

She expected Morrigan and Alistair to fight against the idea of trying again for another child, but surprisingly, they did not. Perhaps they already knew that they owed her that cooperation, for having burned her child without her, for having denied her the closure of at least holding the baby before it was taken away.

She knew, somehow, that for good or ill, the third try would be her last. She could not say exactly why, but she felt as if she had been assured of this while recovering from the birthing, in a dream she could no longer remember.


	10. Dragons

* * *

_9:44 Dragon_

* * *

 

The Princess of Ferelden was born angry.

Aedana Theirin came into the world screaming, and she would probably go out the same way.

That’s what everyone said.

She was birthed during an early winter storm on the 11th day of the 11th month, Firstfall. The rains had not yet turned to snows, but fell in a hard, driving sleet that coated the cobblestones in ice.

It was a little over a year after the last stillbirth. Crows and ravens gathered outside the castle, black feathers glistening in the rain. The servants were sent outside to beat them away, and soldiers shot arrows at them, but they would not leave, artfully dodging every bolt and rock.

Lightning struck an ancient tree in the castle’s courtyard, felling it. From his bedroom window, Kieran watched it crash to the ground. He shivered. He had loved to climb that tree.

In the kitchens, a nervous maid burned her hand on a pot of scalding water that was being boiled to take to the queen’s bedchambers. She dropped the pot and the water went everywhere, scorching her legs and everywhere else it splashed

All the omens foretold death.

Esme was in labor for almost an entire day, and this after months of a difficult pregnancy which had been plagued by sickness and doubt.

Beleaguered messengers soaked with cold through to their bones pounded at the palace gates with letters from Arl Teagan Guerrin for the King and Queen, updates about the Exalted Council that was being held in Val Royeaux to determine the fate of the Inquisition. The letters piled up on Alistair’s desk, ignored, despite all his earlier promises to attend to Teagan’s missives without delay. Chancellor Eamon took it upon himself to crack open the seals and read the letters, and to send replies that were little more than apologies and requests for patience.

The babe was born successfully, at last, with all the requisite number of limbs and digits, and a healthy human appearance. She was hazel-eyed with tufts of light brown hair like her father’s. Alistair cried happily when she was passed to him, all cleaned and swaddled, and she cried angrily, kicking her newborn legs at her wrappings as if she could not wait to get free and run away.

But a squalling child was better than a still, silent, dead thing. Alistair, looking upon that scrunched up, beet red face, felt nothing but exalted relief.

It was short lived, however, as in the hours following the delivery, Aedana would not feed from any wet nurse. Esme was weak from the labor, barely able to hold her child, and they feared the baby would starve herself to death even as fears rose that Esme would fade away. Alistair looked to Morrigan to fix it, somehow. In the face of losing Esme, or the child, or both, his general distrust of magical solutions vanished, replaced by an almost childlike belief that her magic gave Morrigan all the power in the world to snap her fingers and solve the problem instantly. But besides healing spells for Esme and a few calming directed ineffectually at the newborn, there was little magic could do.

To everyone’s great relief, Esme eventually recovered her strength and Aedana calmed enough to nurse from her mother and to sleep intermittently, though no one would ever mistake her for a peaceful child. From the day of her birth she was a fitful sleeper, tormented by night terrors even as a newborn who should have nothing frightening to dream about, and given to violent tantrums at any hour.

On her naming day there were feasts held all throughout Ferelden, with great rejoicing among all those loyal to the Theirin family. For twelve long years they had feared that their King and Queen would never produce an heir, but Aedana was to be the answer to all prayers. Drunken, happy citizens were heard to proclaim, “Let’s see Orlais invade now!” as if the baby would rise from her cradle and put down any insurgency herself.

Esme was happy, perhaps happier than she had ever felt in her life.

But as she cradled her child, cooing at her and twirling the little tufts of curly brown hair in her fingers, Morrigan hovered behind her and asked, finally, a question that had been on her mind for several days now that mother and child seemed out of the woods. It was a rare moment when Aedana was fed and content, not fretting or crying or waving her tiny fists in the air as if shaking her hands at the gods for allowing her to come into the world.

“Do you feel any different?”

“Different?” Esme said, absently, not turning her head. She smiled and touched the little snub of Aedana’s nose. “Different how?”

Morrigan made a soft _tch_ sound. “How am I supposed to know? I am no Grey Warden, I do not understand how it feels. Tis been long enough, however, to know whether or not you still bear the taint. So, how do you feel?”

“Oh, that,” Esme said, dismissively. “Nothing has changed.”

“Ah,” Morrigan said. She was disappointed, for that had been the goal, had it not? Not merely to have a child, but to replicate the cure than had removed Fiona’s taint. She knew Esme must also be keenly disappointed, whether she would show it or not. If it had not worked this time, Morrigan was out of ideas, short of needing to use more blood for the magic, truly dangerous amounts of blood, and that she would not do. She told herself that she would feel this way even if the blood donor were not her only son, and she almost believed herself.

Even if there had been a better source of blood, Morrigan did not relish the idea of going through all of this again. The pressure, the uncertainty, Esme nearly dying, the sad little malformed corpses… and she knew that Alistair wanted to be done with it as well. Even if Esme were mad enough to want to do it again, all her powers of persuasion would fail on them. She would have to find herself a new husband and a new mage, at the least, should she insist upon it.

Aedana woke and started to fuss. Esme shushed her gently, rocking her in her arms. That only made her whimper, and so Esme started to hum her a song as she paced around the room. Morrigan didn’t recognize the tune, but it sounded beautiful. She had never heard something quite so beautiful. Perhaps she was biased because she enjoyed the sound of Esme’s voice. Aedana must have felt similarly, for Esme’s humming eventually quieted the child down again.

Esme would often hum that same lullaby to quiet the baby, and whenever Morrigan was around to hear it, she remembered how beautiful she thought it was, but afterwards she could never remember how it went. She always forgot, until the next time she heard Esme singing it.

 

* * *

_9:45-52 Dragon_

* * *

 

The night terrors continued as Aedana grew.

She remained a sickly, fretful baby. She became a surly toddler. She walked and talked and grew slower than other children, and was given to temper tantrums the likes of which few had ever seen. These fits of anger battered any nanny like a hurricane crashing in upon the Bay of Denerim from the Amarantine Ocean, and the effect was quite similar on those poor souls as the waves had upon hapless ships. Aedana looked like a normal child, but there was something wrong on the inside, people whispered. The palace servants, who came and went with greater frequency than ever before, called her The Dragon.

There were only two calming influences in her life, it seemed. One, was her mother’s lullabies. The other, was a dog.

She could only sleep if Ser Bumperton was in her bed. She was only happy when she could play with him. Long before she developed speech and would talk to any human, even her parents, she would carry on long, happy conversations in babble-talk with the hound, who responded in conversational yips, grunts, and whines.

It was very uncommon for a mabari to imprint so heavily on more than one person, especially when its first master still lived. But he was a wise dog, outstanding even among a breed known for intelligence, so perhaps he knew that Aedana needed him more. He slept under her cradle from the time she was born until she was old enough for a bed, and then he slept beside her every night, as if to keep the nightmares and the demons at bay.

They were inseparable up until one evening when, shortly after Aedana had fallen asleep, he roused himself, nosing open the door (which Aedana always insisted be left slightly ajar), and slowly and gingerly walked down the long corridors of the castle until he arrived at Esme’s chamber door. He scratched at it until he was let in.

Esme murmured words of surprise that he was there. “What’s this? Have you decided to grace me with your presence?” He just presented his head for petting, and she obliged, asking, “Is Aedie sleeping well?” He wagged his tail. “Yes? Good.”

She sat back down in the chair beside the fire, where she had been reading a book. Ser Bumperton settled down on the rug, lowering his old dog bones with a little _whump,_ and rested his muzzle on Esme’s foot. He let out a long sigh, smacking his lips, then went to sleep. Esme smiled fondly down at him as he snored, but then he quieted down, and for a while there was only the sound of fire crackling and the pages rustling as she turned them.

No more than an hour later, Alistair opened the door, yawning and muttering something about passing a law to make it illegal for Eamon to bother him about “urgent matters” so late at night. He stopped when he saw Ser Bumperton, still resting upon Esme’s foot, and he said with a smile, “Well that’s a sight I haven’t seen in a long time.”

Esme laughed. “He’s taken pity on me,” she said. “Perhaps he feels guilty for neglecting me.” But she said it without any real petulance, since she appreciated and even heavily relied upon the dog’s superior nannying abilities.

Alistair came over and crouched down, stroking the hound’s head. “One of these days you’ll tell me your secret, oh child whisperer...” he said, but his voice trailed away at the end, and he pulled his hand back.

He looked up, met Esme’s eyes with apprehension in his own, and that’s when she knew that Ser Bumperton was dead.

Ser Bumperton had lived to the venerable old age of 20, quite ancient for a dog who had fought through a Blight and traveled the world. He outlived the normal life expectancy of a mabari by several years. He’d had a good life.

The Queen and King mourned their beloved dog deeply, but the Princess was inconsolable for months, if she ever truly recovered at all.

Alistair tried to appease her with a new puppy, taken from a litter her older brother’s hound, Barkspawn, had sired. She refused to touch the dog and made it sleep outside her door, until the rejected puppy was taken away to be given to someone who wanted it.

The day they buried Ser Bumperton was the day Aedana’s magic manifested.

Esme was trying to comfort the angry, crying child, and make her leave the spot where Ser Bumperton was buried. Aedana had flung herself across the fresh turned ground and stayed there for hours, even after nightfall, when Esme decided she must be made to come inside. She had to pick her up and drag her away. Aedana twisted round and put a hand on her wrist, screaming that she hated her and would not go, and in that instant she burned her mother’s wrist so badly that the scar never healed.

None of the balms or healing spells Morrigan put on it were enough to make the handprint go away.

Esme always wore long sleeves that covered her wrists after that day.

She stopped singing lullabies, because Aedana didn’t want to hear them anymore. The princess bolted her door, shut tight, and told her mother to go away. “I’m not a baby,” she said, through the thick wood, “I want you to leave me alone.”

Many things had been expected of Aedana before she was even born. She was to have been her parents’ joy, the heir to the throne of Ferelden, the pride of Denerim. She was not supposed to be a Mage.

She was only 6 years old, young for a human child to come into their magic.

Ferelden had changed but little since the Mage-Templar War. There was a new Chantry Circle system in place, under the reformist leadership of Grand Enchanter Vivienne and Divine Victoria. But for some, it was not reformist enough. A secondary Circle separate from the Chantry had also sprung up under the leadership of Grand Enchanter Fiona, called the College of Enchanters.

The College lauded itself as a safe, nurturing environment for the tutelage and care of young Mages free from the oppressive oversight of religion and fear, the two main pillars on which the Chantry’s Circle had stood (and crumbled) over the ages.

The two rival factions seemed always on the brink of war with one another, and the unrest did nothing to curb the populace’s fear and distrust of Mages.

The idea of the Heir to the Ferelden throne being a mage was a revolutionary idea. But she was only 6, and that was a problem to be dealt with later. Or so her parents thought.

They had no intention of shipping her off to a faraway circle, Chantry run or otherwise. They kept her at home, agreeing that she should be supervised and trained to control her magic by Morrigan.

Though she agreed to it, Morrigan began to chafe under the bit of being the “Royal Magekeeper,” as she referred to it with great sarcasm. She had borne the title of Arcane Advisor, and then Royal Court Mage, for several years, but now it felt increasingly as if Esme and Alistair were just relying on her to raise their child for them, because they didn’t know what to do with a mage child. Even though she would have been loathe to admit it, she barely knew what to do with the girl, either. Raising Kieran had not prepared her for the thunderstorm in a bottle that was Aedana Theirin.

She should have seen this coming, she thought, but she hadn’t. Somehow, she’d thought that if the child could be brought into the world successfully her responsibility towards it would be ended. Perhaps it might have, if she had left and not looked back.

As for the Princess, she hated Morrigan, resenting her for becoming ever more present in her life than her own mother. But Morrigan did not retreat from her angry words the way Esme did, as she felt no sharp wound to her heart when Aedana declared her hatred and wish death upon her.

The relationship between the Queen and the Princess grew ever more fraught. As the years went on the distance between them widened until it was cavernous.

To say that Esme could not understand her daughter is, perhaps, unfair. But try as she might, she was no mage. And once Esme realized that she had brought a child into the world who was plagued by the nightmares of a Warden since birth, her sense of guilt made it difficult for her to face her daughter. Alistair was not free from this trouble, either, but as it had been Esme who had wanted it most, and pushed for it, she was hit hardest with the guilt of it all.

It had become apparent that Aedana had been born with the Taint, passed down from both of her parents. Whatever magic the Theirin bloodline possessed had not been a cure. The blood of the great dragons, and Morrigan’s diligent magic, had worked together to create a child who was, everyone whispered, cursed.

It was a hard thing for a child to endure. It was a hard thing for her parents. It was a hard thing for Morrigan, who was expected to help her grow into some semblance of a responsible mage and keep her from succumbing to the rage demons which stalked her in the Fade.

It was even hard for Kieran, who tried his best to show kindness and love to his half-sister, but who was continually rebuffed. Their sibling relationship did not resemble that of Esme and Fergus, not in the slightest, though they were of a similar difference in age. Aedana did not look up to him or idolize him the way Esme had looked up to Fergus. In fact, she thought he was deficient somehow because he was not a mage like his mother, and she resented how much Alistair favored him. But everyone else saw the princess as an exceptionally spoiled child, whose parents were so intent upon apologizing to her for even being born that they indulged her to the point of making her a monster.

When she was eight, Aedana announced that she wanted a Deepstalker. She made this proclamation at dinner. Alistair choked on his ale and Esme just stared at her with her fork poised above her food. Morrigan and Kieran exchanged glances with one another, but remained silent, as if hoping they wouldn’t get dragged into it, this time.

Morrigan found herself having to be the Big Bad Witch far too often, since she was the only other mage in the “family.” She hated it, but she could not find it in herself to just abandon the child to her own wildness, for she would never forgive herself (nor would Esme) if the girl became possessed.

Alistair finally broke the awkward silence, putting down his mug, clearly his throat, and saying, “Deepstalkers aren’t pets, darling. They’re vicious beasts. If you want, we can get you another dog.”

“I don’t want a dog,” Aedana said quietly, deliberately, giving him a flat stare. “I want a deepstalker. And I know they can be pets. I overheard someone talking to Uncle Eamon about how the carta have tamed deepstalkers. I want one.”

“Oh, sure, I’ll just hit up the carta leaders that I’m sure good friends with, and tell them to ship me a deepstalker, all the way from Orzammar,” Alistair said, with brittle sarcasm.

“Really?” Aedana sat up straighter, gasping happily.

“No.”

Her face went from sunny to stormy in an instant. “But you just said—”

“Deepstalkers are not pets. You can have a dog, a cat, a small defenseless bird, or a nug. Those are you choices.”

Aedana pressed her lips together and stared at him as if she were trying to work a spell to light his hair on fire, then turned to Esme and said, calmly, “Mother, I want a deepstalker.”

Esme didn’t say anything, just reached for a goblet of wine and drank it slowly. That had become her usual defense against having to actually deal with her daughter, ever since the burning.

Aedana slammed one small fist against the table and shouted, “I hate you both!” then got up and ran away.

The servants who stood guard at the doorway moved slightly to give her room to pass, even though there was a large enough berth between them already.

“Well, that went well,” Alistair said after a moment.

“All the dishes are still on the table,” Kieran said, and that got a soft chuckle from the King. Esme did not laugh, only held out her goblet automatically as an efficient servant appeared at her shoulder with a full decanter to replenish it.

Distantly, there came the sound of clattering and crashing, as if an ancient Alamarri jug or a set of decorative armor had been knocked down in the hallway. No one went to go investigate.

As if he had not even heard it, Alistair said to Kieran, “So, are you all ready to sail to Kirkwall with Teagan?”

“Yes,” said Kieran, visibly excited just at the thought of traveling to the Free Marches. “I already have everything I need for the journey packed. Uncle Teagan said that we will be meeting with the Viscount as soon as we arrive. There’s going to be a welcoming party at the docks, he said, come to take us straight away to the palace. There always is.”

“Of course there is. That’s the downside of travelling with a retinue, but I suppose it can’t be helped. You’d have more fun if you were able to slip into the city unnoticed, go to a local tavern, have a few drinks with the local fishermen and dock workers,” Alistair replied, getting a faraway, wistful look.

“And tavern wenches,” said Morrigan, just because it seemed like the obvious addition. Not that Alistair had ever been able to look a tavern wench in the eye without blushing furiously and stammering out nonsense, when he was Kieran’s age.

Kieran choked a little. “Mother, I swear, I won’t be, uhm—”

“Do whatever you like, tis no worry to me,” she said, ignoring her son’s embarrassment. “I am sure your Uncle Teagan will be the _most_ responsible of guides.”

Teagan was no blood uncle of Kieran’s, or Alistair’s, but since Alistair referred to him as such, both Aedana and Kieran had picked up on the habit. The Arl of Redcliffe was set to arrive at the palace the next day, and from the Bay of Denerim would take a ship up to the Free Marches to spend the rest of the year travelling from city state to city state, ostensibly as the Royal Ambassador, though most everyone knew he just loved the view the Tourney and bet on the fighters. Alistair was indulgent of his favorite “uncle” enough to reward him for neglecting his Arldom when a Tourney was on by always sending him abroad on “official diplomatic business” whenever it was a Tourney year.

This year, Kieran was being sent along with Teagan for no other reason, ostensibly, than that he was a young man who had spent most of the last decade in Denerim and deserved to get out and about. That didn’t stop the court from gossiping about the obvious fact that the King seemed especially keen on seeing that the son of the Court Mage (“court mistress” some harrumphed under their breaths) learn about foreign powers, and diplomacy, and everything else a good ruler needed to know.

There had long been rumors about Kieran’s parentage, because despite no official acknowledgement being issued, Alistair didn’t bother trying to hide how he favored the boy. For a time people had assumed that Kieran was being groomed as a possible heir. Those rumors had subsided when Aedana was born, but when it became impossible to hide her magic from the court, people began to think that the son of a mage wasn’t so scandalous an idea after all. It was less shocking an idea than the fact that the Heir Apparent herself was magic touched.

Kieran himself still seemed “perfectly normal” in every way. Morrigan herself found it ironic that her son had never shown an aptitude for magic, and that Esme’s child was the one who blossomed early. Perhaps she should have expected it, she thought, what with all the magic that had been channeled into her creation, but that had been the case with Kieran as well. And didn’t both children have mages for grandmothers? No, it should have been Kieran, it should have been her son, who carried the staff in his hand and the magic within him. Aedana had been born to the Crown.

Flemeth would laugh, if she were still alive. Oh, how she would laugh, and laugh, and laugh. She would chide Morrigan for her hubris and the way she played games with her son’s destiny, even after swearing she would not.

Morrigan tried her best to hide her unease at the fact that she was not going with Kieran to the Free Marches. He was nineteen years old, plenty old enough to be traveling abroad without his mother fussing after him, but she still had to force herself to let him go without complaint. She had always wanted Kieran to see the world, to be well traveled and wise, so she had readily agreed to Alistair’s suggestion that he be sent with Teagan to tour the Free Marches. But she had never, in all the times she had thought about Kieran’s worldly education, pictured him travelling without her.

She had assumed at first that she would also go, until Esme privately asked her if she would stay, because Aedana was becoming more unpredictable with each passing month, and she didn’t know what she would do if the girl had an episode while Morrigan was away, and she didn’t trust any other mages to be discreet about having to watch over her, and so wouldn’t Morrigan stay?

Morrigan stayed, if only because she could hear Flemeth’s voice, a distant memory, chiding her for so tangling the poor boy up in her skirts for this long. She did not want to be Aedana’s caretaker forever, but the girl was only eight. If she had raised Kieran well, he would now be able to succeed on his own.

“I envy you,” said Alistair to his son, “and Teagan, as well. I don’t suppose it’s too late to drop everything and go with the both of you, travel around the Free Marches following the Grand Tourney.”

“You could enter the Tourney yourself, twould make everyone talk,” said Morrigan.

“As if they need more excuses to do that,” muttered Esme into her goblet. She had been largely ignoring the whole conversation up until that point, having lost herself to some private brooding as she often did after one of Aedana’s outbursts.

“Might be fun,” Alistair said, pretending to consider it. “I could paint a big red X on my armor and have a herald proclaim, ‘here he is, boys, you’ve been wanting to have a go at the ruddy bastard for a while now so have at him,’ and see who all tries to assassinate me on the field.”

Just then, Aedana swept back into the room, silencing the conversation. Her family watched with bated breath as she grabbed the plate bearing her half eaten dinner away from her spot at the table. She carried it back out of the dining hall with her as she flounced away again without a single word.

 

* * *

_9:54 Dragon_

* * *

 

Princess Aedana was only nine when several warships arrived in the Bay of Denerim, under the banner of Anora Mac Tir, “Rightful Queen of Ferelden.”

It had taken her over 20 years, but she had at long last garnered enough backing by certain noble houses to build up a fleet and sail from the Free Marches to lay siege to Denerim. She even had the backing of Empress Celene in Orlais—unofficially, of course, but the Orlesian influence and coin was apparent in the army she raised. It would have made her father roll in his grave, but evidently, Anora weighed that concern against the idea of finally overthrowing Loghain Mac Tir’s executioners, and thought he would forgive her for it.

Her campaign was built upon the fear that magic had infected the Theirin court. There were whispers of debauchery in the royal bedchamber and rumors that a witch ruled Ferelden from the shadows.

It was said that the ghosts of a dozen dead children roamed the halls of the castle, one for every year of the cursed union predating Aedana’s birth. It was said that the marriage of Esmeralda Cousland and Alistair Theirin was cursed by the way they had attained the throne through murder and lies, but that they had finally managed to break it by magicking forth a dark fey child through unspeakable means.

This lurid talk was added to the long standing rumors that Alistair had no claim to the throne. Alistair’s enemies in Ferelden has long been whispering that he was no son of Maric’s, rather some no name Warden dressed up by Eamon and the Queen, thus painting Eamon and Esme as the power-grasping masterminds behind their commoner puppet of a King.

Enough people believed these rumors to start a war, and there were enough slighted nobles who didn’t care if the rumors were true or not, so long as they presented a decent excuse to throw down rulers who had displeased or disappointed them.

But there were still enough who were loyal to the crown to put down the rebellion.

Many still loved the King and Queen, Heroes of the Fifth Blight. They were especially popular among the commoners and the elves, for they had been known for years as friends to the lowly among their citizens, being the first rulers to assign a Bann to the alienage and abolishing anti-elven laws such as the one which had made it a crime to kill a human in defense of an elf. Ferelden was still not exactly an elven utopia, but it was better than it had been, and much better than Orlais or many of the city states to the north.

And many elves still remembered that it had been Anora’s father, acting as her regent, who had sold them into slavery. Many remembered that it was Esme and Alistair, while they were still Grey Wardens fighting the Blight, who had personally killed all of the Tevinter slavers. Mages in the castle or no, it was hard to shake the loyalty of Denerim’s elves from their current rulers, and their forces made up a large number of the city’s defenders.

In addition to resistance from the city, there eventually came a second fleet of ships to attack the “Rightful Queen’s” fleet from behind. It was said that messages calling for aid had been successfully sent and received by mercenary allies of King and Queen, and rumor would have it that the Pirate Queen of the Eastern Seas herself had lead her entire fleet to their aid.

The battle at sea raged for days, until the siege was broken, the invading forces were driven back into the sea, and the so-called Rightful Queen was captured and thrown into the tower.

She stayed there, awaiting her fate. The servants who brought her food and tended to her other needs were given strict instructions not to speak to her beyond a few cursory words.

Esme came to her room after a few days of this isolation. Anora looked on in surprise as the Queen entered the room, lowering the hood of her cloak. Esme stared back for a moment, then nodded to the guard to close the door.

“Are you not afraid I’ll shank you with a butter knife?” Anora asked. She did not rise from her chair. Esme glanced over her. She had aged gracefully over the past two decades, now a stately woman approaching 50, her golden hair a pale silvery blonde, with dignified creases no one would dare call “wrinkles” edging at the corners of her mouth and eyes.

The tower cell was one befitting a lady, a former queen, and the widow of the King’s brother. It had a bed, a fireplace, a bookshelf, a screen to dress behind, and a table and twq chairs. It even had a window which overlooked the city. Years ago, when they had debated what to do with Anora, Chancellor Eamon had favored keeping her here in the tower as a prisoner for the rest of her life, or at least until she agreed to swear fealty to Alistair and publicly recognize him as the rightful king. Instead, she had been allowed to leave, though banished to the Free Marches.

“Somehow, I can’t imagine you doing something quite that crass,” said Esme.

Anora uttered a small, bitter chuckle. “Would it be more crass to fight you myself, than to mount an invasion? I would think you would respect the former more.”

Esme shrugged and pulled her cloak aside enough to reveal the sword hung at her hip. “You are welcome to try.”

Anora held up both hands, shaking her head. “No, I recognize futility when I see it. What have you come here for, Esme? To gloat over your victory?”

Esme cautiously approached, and took a seat in the empty opposite Anora. “What were you planning?” she asked. “I am curious. You are old and have no heir; what would you have done had you succeeded?”

Anora smiled thinly. “I am not the only one who has no heir. Unless you think that all of Ferelden will quietly stand by as you put a Mage on the throne?”

Esme reached to fiddle with the lace at her wrist which covered her burn mark. “I won’t discuss that with you,” she said coldly.

Anora nodded, satisfied that the barb had found its mark. “To answer your question,” she said, “there were many years when I told myself to let it go, that my chance was gone, and that starting yet another war would do more to harm Ferelden than letting you have the throne. But for many years I have watched as you led Ferelden to ruin with your disastrous alliances.” She tilted her chin up defiantly. “And there were those who came to me, begging me to take action, so that the throne would never fall to your wild daughter.”

“How noble of you to heed the call and sweep in to save Ferelden from a girl who will not be of age for another decade,” Esme said, sitting back, dropping her hand away from her sleeve. “We have the all the nobles who were known to back your cause in the dungeons, awaiting execution. The only question now, is what to do with you.”

“Is there a question?” Anora raised both eyebrows, her face remaining a calm mask. “You have a reputation to uphold, Esme. From Arl Howe, to my father, to the nobles of Amaranthine… everyone knows that you are a woman not to be crossed. I knew the risk I took when I returned to this city. I will not give you satisfaction by begging for my life.”

“I didn’t come here for that… though the matter isn’t quite as decided as you think. Despite all this, Alistair still doesn’t want to kill you.”

“Oh please. Am I supposed to believe that Alistair wouldn’t give me the same fate as he gave my father?” Anora scoffed.

“You were his brother’s wife.”

Anora looked away at the mention of Cailan. “His half-brother who barely contemplated his existence,” she said, dismissing the connection.

Esme shrugged. “He’s sentimental that way.”

“Well, we both know that Alistair is not the one in charge, here. So his desire for mercy means little.”

“You would have been dead twenty years ago if Alistair didn’t insist on letting you live,” Esme said dryly. “But, you have helped my argument. You are too dangerous to allow to live, even in exile, where you can stir up more rebellions.”

Anora’s gaze was cool and indifferent. “I cannot argue with your logic.”

“You know, you could have stayed in the Free Marches and waited for your armies to succeed. You were living in Starkhaven last, as a guest of Prince Vael, were you not? After all this we would have petitioned him to give you over to us, of course, but I doubt he would have done so.”

Anora shook her head, an almost sad smile on her lips. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” she said. “Besides, I could hardly trust that the throne would still be empty and waiting for me if I was not there when it was taken. But this is all academic, is it not? I lost. You won. You have me at your mercy, and as I know you to be a woman who has none, I can only guess at what you want from me, now.”

Esme sighed. “You may not believe it, but I respect you Anora, I do. We’re very similar, you know.”

“In what way?”

“Well, the obvious,” said Esme, a little put off by the blank look she was getting. She reached for her sleeve again. “The daughter of a teyrn, married to the king. When I first met you, I respected you a great deal, and I thought—I hoped—that we could have been allies, not enemies. But there seems to be only room for one of us, and so… here we are.”

Anora shook her head, her eyes going hard. “We’re nothing alike. You are not even a teyrn’s daughter, not truly. You’re a nameless bastard dressed up in Cousland clothes. You coveted my throne, so you found yourself another nameless bastard who at least had the Theirin blood… and now the both of you make a mockery of the throne together.” She lifted her head high and proud. “I may be an old woman with no heir, as you so crassly described me, but I am exactly who I claim to be. Trueborn daughter of the Hero of River Dane and wife of the last true Theirin King.”

Esme clapped once, twice, three times in slow and deliberate beats. “That’s a wonderful speech. It is true, our father earned his title as the Hero of River Dane, once upon a time, just as I earned mine as the Hero of Ferelden.” She stood up, throwing her shoulders back, resting her hand on the hilt of her sword. “So yes, yes, remind me that I was adopted, oh what shame and horror. You won’t rob me of my pride in my parents, my family, my brother… I am a Cousland, just as you are a Mac Tir. But I didn’t come here to defend my heritage, or Alistair’s, for that matter.”

“What did you come here for?”

“Perhaps one day I’ll die in ignomy, the way your father did, heroic titles be damned. But I’ll be twice damned if I let you be the cause of my downfall,” Esme said. “I suppose I came to see if there was any hope that we didn’t have to be enemies. One last attempt.”

“When have you made any other attempt?” Anora asked. “You came into Denerim all those years ago with the intent to take the throne, to kill my father… I asked you if you would back my claim at the Landsmeet, and you admitted to me that you would back Alistair, and that you wanted to be his queen, so you left no room for friendship. If you had wanted to be allies you would have minded your place, accepted your role in the Wardens, and supported me. But you did not, as so, here we are.”

“Indeed,” said Esme.

“You think we’re so alike… well, I ask you to consider what is going to happen to you should you outlive Alistair, as I outlived my husband. Do you think that you will be allowed to remain as Queen? I doubt it, if my fate is any indication. Oh, you may think your status as the Hero of Ferelden will save you, but for how long will that goodwill last? Truly? I doubt you will be able to put your daughter on the throne without more war and bloodshed, not while the Mage Rebellion is within memory. Oh, you will die in ignominy one day, your heroics during the Blight forgotten, mark my words.”

“You paint a dire picture,” Esme said. “I sincerely doubt I will be outliving Alistair, but that’s none of your business. You won’t be living to see it, sadly.”

“I know. But I take comfort in knowing it will come to pass.”

“I’m glad for you.” Esme turned and walked towards the door, but paused before knocking to be let out. “There is one question I will ask of you before I go.”

Anora waited, saying nothing.

“You will be beheaded tomorrow morning, at dawn,” Esme said. “And then your body will be burnt in accordance with the Chantry’s laws. What would you like us to do with your ashes?”

“I…” This clearly took Anora by surprise. Esme turned back to look at her. Her naturally pale skin had gone even whiter. “I thought that the matter was not ‘decided’ yet?”

Esme said, “Now, it is. I have decided it. I will tell Alistair that I will not tolerate a merciful sentence.”

“And he will do as you bid.”

“He wants to keep you locked up here, disallowed from sending or receiving letters, as if that will keep those loyal to you from trying to mount another rebellion in your name. But you are clearly a threat to my daughter. Our daughter. So I do not see any way around it.”

Anora swallowed. “Good,” she said. “Then I will see my father again, at last. My father, my mother, and Cailan. All those dear to me. It is better than being left to rot here. I am glad.”

“Your ashes?”

“Do you mean this question in good faith?” Anora asked, her eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“Yes. I told you, I have respect for you. I cannot let you live, but I can at least offer you some dignity in death. I feel I owe you that much.”

Anora took a deep breath. “Before I left for the Free Marches, I scattered my father’s ashes along the coast. I did not think he would want to leave Ferelden. I would like to join him.”

Esme nodded. “It will be done.” Anora’s father had been officially branded a traitor upon his death, but his ashes had been given to Anora as a form of consolation, rather than being tossed out in an ignoble fashion. Anora would die a traitor’s death, as well, but Alistair had wanted to put her ashes down in the crypt beside Cailan’s.

She could not think of anything more to say to former queen, and so she rapped at the door to be let out.

She left the tower feeling… empty. She wasn’t quite sure what she had expected. She remembered how foolish she had felt long ago, at the Landsmeet, when Anora had spoken out against her. _I am a fool, still,_ she thought. Tonight, on the even of Anora’s execution, and she was still trying to coax some approval out of her predecessor. Some acknowledgement that she, Esme Cousland, had earned the right to be Queen.

She should have known she would encounter only bitterness and disdain. Anora would not have attempted a coup if she had any regard for her usurper. As Esme walked back to the palace, accompanied by guards who now followed her everywhere in the aftermath of the siege, she told herself to let it go. If she looked to Anora for reassurance that they were equals, that she had as much right to the throne as Anora once had, then she would always be mired in fear and doubt. There were enough people who loved her and lauded her as Hero or Queen… wanting her enemies to respect her was a futile and vain desire.

Dawn came and Esme felt uneasy. Alistair was deeply unhappy. As much as he had hated Loghain, hated him enough to kill him himself, he couldn’t seem to bring that same ruthlessness to bear against Anora. He knew, logically, that Anora would still be a threat even locked in the tower, but he still thought of this execution as the murder of his sister-in-law. A member of his family.

In the end, he signed the order of execution only because Esme told him that he had to. He had to, in order to protect Aedana. As long as she lived, Anora’s supporters would never stop spreading fear of their daughter as reason to overthrow them, and what would happen to Aedana then? Would she be allowed to live freely in exile? Hardly.

Dew clung to the grass and the sky was still rosy as the nobles and other members of Anora’s failed invasion were hung from gallows erected in the courtyard. A crowd of Theirin loyalists were there to witness it. The court had shrunk with the traitors weeded out, and it was a sad sight, but sadder still would it have been to have lost and to be the ones in hoods.

Finally, Anora herself was brought out and led to the headsman's chopping block. She was dressed in a fine blue velvet dress, her hair immaculate, her face as white as a winter storm. She looked up at the King and Queen as she knelt, then she pressed her neck to the side of the block, and the headsman waited for the signal.

Esme stood, and held up her hand. When she dropped it, the axe dropped upon Anora’s neck.

Alistair got up and left without a word.

The Chantry sisters came to collect the bodies for burning. They would be burnt together all as one, as traitors stripped of burial rites, nameless and titleless, their houses ended and all their lands and riches given over to those who had remained loyal to the King and Queen. Several commoners who had distinguished themselves would be elevated to the nobility to replace those who had chosen the wrong side.

Esme ordered that Anora be burnt separately and that her ashes be scattered along the coast.

Aedana was much more quiet and solemn that usual in the days and weeks following the failed coup. She had not been present for the executions, being watched over closely by Morrigan lest she try to slip out and watch the beheading. She had also been safe and sound during the fighting, kept far away from the fray outside the palace walls. But still, the short lived rebellion affected her, because she knew that it had been fought because of her.

 

* * *

_9:55 Dragon_

* * *

 

Aedana chafed at the way her family kept her hidden away from court; their private shame. She wasn’t allowed to play with other noble children, for fear of her hurting them and starting another war, and Kieran was a young man, far too old to be a playmate for his little sister, even if he had wanted to shoulder that burden. He was allowed to travel, encouraged even, while she was kept at home.

Alistair was in his study one day, in the spring, writing a letter to someone he didn’t know and didn’t care about, when Aedana found her way into the room and sat down, sighing with boredom that seemed to surpass his own. “What is it?” he asked, pausing for only a moment. As much as he wanted to put aside his work and do anything else, he knew from twenty years’ experience that it was best to buckle down and get things taken care of, because the letters never stopped arriving and there never was a cessation of people who wanted something from him.

“I overheard Lady Smallwood talking to Lord Felmont today,” Aedana announced. This was not an uncommon thing. She just _happened_ to overhear conversations more than anyone else he’d ever met, and that included Leliana. “They said that you are going to marry me off to Kieran so he can be the King when you die.”

“You can’t marry your brother and you shouldn’t be eavesdropping on people,” he said, still scratching the quill over the parchment.

“They said that’s why you won’t admit he’s your son, or something. So that you can make us get married.”

“I… what? Did they really say that or are you telling a story?” he asked, as the meaning of her words finally registered. He hated court gossip with a passion. It seemed like people had nothing better to do with their time than come up with ludicrous stories, and that included his daughter, unfortunately.

“I am not making it up,” she insisted. “They really said that.”

He narrowed his eyes. Logically, it didn’t even make sense, and he didn’t want to think Lady Smallwood and Lord Felmont would be engaging in such lurid and vicious speculation. He’d hate to see Esme have to behead them, too.

“Why do you pretend that Kieran isn’t really my brother?” Aedana asked.

“I don’t pretend anything.”

She blew right past his denial, saying matter-of-factly, “He’s older than I am. If you recognize him, he could be King, couldn’t he? That’s how it works, doesn’t it?”

“Not quite.”

“Because he’s a bastard?”

He shrugged, but then nodded reluctantly. He didn’t like that word. He never had. He’d always hated having to tell people he was a bastard, when he was younger, and just avoided bringing it up or talking about his family unless pointedly asked about it. But she had the gist of it. Even were he to defy Morrigan’s wishes and publicly acknowledge Kieran as his son and heir, there would need to be a Landsmeet so that all the nobles could gather and discuss it. The very idea gave him the sensation of cold snakes crawling up his spine. And poor Kieran, to be put in the middle of all that…

“Better a bastard than a mage,” she said, and he knew that she was quoting something she’d overheard, but he didn’t want to ask who had said it. She was far too fond of hiding in the shadows and eavesdropping on people for her own good, and his sanity.

“I don’t want you to say things like that,” he told her.

She sat across from him and drummed her small fingers on the table, looking at him with all the solemnity of her elven years and then some. “I can’t be your heir, because I have magic. That’s what everyone says. Ferelden will never accept a mage as queen.”

“That’s not something you have to worry about right now.”

“I don’t want to be queen. I don’t even want to be a princess. You should just tell everyone that Kieran is going to be your heir. That would make them happy. Everyone likes Kieran, even though his mother’s a mage. They like him a lot.”

“Kieran is very likable. People used to say I was likeable, hasn’t stopped them from trying to kill me,” he said, then remembered that he was talking to his eleven year old daughter, and added, “I mean… um, well dammit.” There wasn’t really a way to sugar coat that statement.

It didn’t even seem to phase her. “Well I don’t want to be Queen,” she declared, in a small calm voice. “I want to be a Grey Warden.”

“Oh, Maker, why…?”

“Grey Wardens are heroes. Warriors without equal. They kill darkspawn and archdemons and keep the whole world safe.”

She sounded like him, once upon a time, and it made him sad to remember being that confident and naive. “Your _mother_ killed an archdemon and kept the whole world safe,” he pointed out.

She rolled her eyes. “I know that.”

“You could try showing her more respect, then.” _And stop making her cry…_

“I could kill an archdemon.”

“Let’s just hope there’s no Blight in your lifetime.”

“I could still kill darkspawn. There’s always darkspawn.”

“Yes, if you go looking for them, there are. But you don’t need to do that. You’re a princess, not a Grey Warden.”

She slammed her feet against the desk. “You’re not listening to me. I don’t want to be a princess. I want to be a mage and a Grey Warden. I want to travel all around, fighting monsters and killing darkspawn.”

“You’re not old enough to fight monsters and kill darkspawn.”

“But I’m old enough to learn,” she said. “Other children get sent to Circles to learn how to hone their magic. I’m eleven now. I should go to a Circle.”

He laughed out of surprise, not amusement. “You do not want to go live in a Circle. Who is talking about sending you to a Circle?” he asked, though he knew the answer was probably “everyone.”

“I heard that you got a letter from Grand Enchanter Vivienne,” she said, leaning in excitedly. “I heard she’s killed lots of dragons. She wants to teach me, doesn’t she? I want to go learn.”

“You’re not going to a Circle,” he said. “Anything you want to learn, Morrigan can teach you.”

“No she can’t, or she won’t. Morrigan hates me. I hate her.”

“You throw that word around a lot, Aedie. You shouldn’t do that.”

“Why not? It’s true.”

He sighed. “The Circle isn’t some happy place where everyone studies magic while holding hands and singing, you know. There are a lot of rules. And there are Templars to make sure you… well, let’s just say you’d miss Morrigan.”

“Didn’t you used to be a Templar?”

“...in training. Yes. That’s how I know what I’m talking about.”

“But that was before the war between the mages and the templars, and now everything is different, and Grand Enchanter Vivienne doesn’t let the Templars misbehave,” Aedana said, her eyes glowing. “She fought against Corypheus and she knew the Inquisitor, and killed—”

“Lots of dragons, I know. Morrigan knew the Inquisitor and fought against Corypheus _as_ a dragon. Why don’t you ask her to teach you how to _be_ a dragon, hmm?”

Aedana scoffed, throwing her head back dramatically. “That’s impossible. No one can _be_ a dragon. Dragons are dragons. People are people.”

“Have you seen her turn into a giant spider?”

“Spiders are stupid.”

He supposed he should be thankful that Aedana wasn’t interested in learning how to shapeshift. The last thing he needed was her turning into a beast and devouring half the remainder of the court. Maker, what a nightmare that would be.

He’d fought a few dragons, in his time, but that didn’t seem to impress his daughter at all. He’d told her stories about how they fought and killed a dragon who roosted at the Temple of the Sacred Ashes and was being worshiped by cultists who thought it was Andraste reborn. He’d told her stories about the dragon who lived in a ruined temple deep within the Brecilian forest. And of course he’d told her about the archdemon. But the fact that he, and Esme, and Morrigan had fought all of these dragons didn’t seem to matter at all, to her. Somehow, they were still boring and awful and didn’t compare to a mage she’d never met who ran a Circle far away.

“Well,” he said, “I have not, in fact, gotten any letters from Madame De Fer. Sorry.”

“But—”

“I have exchanged a few letters with Grand Enchanter Fiona, the head of the College of Enchanters.”

She frowned thoughtfully. “I could go to the College, I guess. I could go to either Circle, I don’t care. I just want to be around mages who aren’t Morrigan.”

“We weren’t considering sending you there,” he said, and her frowned turned less thoughtful, more sour. “I wrote to see about her sending a few of her best mages here to… uh, help Morrigan out… with your education. I didn’t tell you about it yet because we haven’t decided if we want them here and apparently Fiona hasn’t decided if she wants to send them. But, what if we did bring some other mages here to teach you? Would that make you happy?”

She shook her head. “No. I don’t want to live here anymore.”

“We can’t just send you away.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re the Princess.”

“Ugh!” she proclaimed, frustrated with the circular nature of the argument. “I don’t _want_ to be the princess!”

“Well, tough luck,” he said, losing his patience. “When I was your age I didn’t want to be sent to the Chantry to be a templar initiate, but I didn’t have a say in it. Most mage children don’t want to be sent away from their families to live in the Circles. You know there was a whole entire war was fought over just that? You should be grateful that you get to stay right where you are.”

“I’m not you and I’m not other mage children,” she said. “I hate it here. I never asked to be born! I never wanted to be a stupid Princess! I wish you weren’t my father! I hate you! I hate Mother! I hate stupid Morrigan and I wish you would all just die!”

Normally, she would have gotten up and torn out of the room after a tirade like that. That was her usual way of ending any argument when she wasn’t getting what she wanted, and it was an effective one, because he felt every word deeply and thought them all to be true.

He had passed down every curse imaginable to this poor tortured child. The taint, royal Theirin blood and all the heavy expectations that came with it, and if that were not enough, the magic that was from his mother. The magic had skipped a generation but he was sure it was his fault that she carried it, that it was running wild and uncontrollably through her, taking away her childhood and destroying her happiness.

But she stayed there, sitting across from him, looking too small in the great big chair, and he couldn’t imagine how she would ever survive outside these palace walls, without her family to protect her from the reality of the world. A world where an angry young mage received no pity or patience.

“I’m sorry, Aedie,” he said, wearily. “I wish I could take it all away.”

“Take what away? My magic?” she shrieked, cowering now as if he were the Big Bad Templar come to make her Tranquil. “I don’t want you to do that!”

“What do you want me to do, then?”

“I told you! Let me go to a Circle. I don’t want to be here anymore! I don’t want to be the princess.”

“You can’t just stop being the princess, Aedie. Don’t you understand? That’s who you will be wherever you go. You won’t be as happy as you think with the other mages, because they won’t just automatically see you as one of them. And it’s too risky.”

He took a deep breath. Esme hated for Aedana to be exposed to the realities of politics, and wanted her shielded from brutal truths about assassination and wars, but there was really no other way to make her understand why she needed to be kept at home, no matter how much she hated it.

“There are people who would try to kill you,” he said. “You’d be too much of a liability for a mage circle, do you understand? Even if we asked them to take you in, I don’t think they would accept you there.”

“Then I’ll change my name. I’ll pretend to be someone else. If you send me somewhere far away no one will even recognize me. No one knows what I look like, because you never let me out, anyway.”

“Well,” he said, “it’s not up to me. Your mother would never allow it.”

It was a weak response, and he knew it, but there was truly no arguing with her. He didn’t know why he had even bothered, because she was the most headstrong child who had ever lived, and would never think that anyone knew better than her.

Aedana stood up, sliding out of the chair, and said, with eerie confidence, “I think she will. She will be happy to see me go.”

 

* * *

_9:56 Dragon_

* * *

 

It took a year, but she finally got her way.

They arrived at the College of Enchanters in a far-off corner of Orlais in the middle of the night. It was just after Summersday, and unbearably hot.

Fiona was the only one to meet them. She ushered them into a darkened hall, and as she lit a few braziers to dimly light the room, it revealed several statues and items arrayed around on pedestals. Some things were locked behind glass or cordoned off by velvet ropes.

“This is the hall of treasures,” said Fiona, quietly. “It is off limits at night, so I thought it was the best place to meet, away from any sleepless wanderers.”

Aedana looked around at the artifacts with excitement and wonder. Alistair was less impressed. He’d seen mysterious ornate boxes and old broken elven statues before. So had Aedana, of course, since Esme had loved to collect such things and had them displayed in the royal palace. But as usual, anything her mother had done and whatever she had collected failed to impress Aedana the way new people and things did.

“Can I look around?” she asked, breathlessly, already headed towards a large obsidian vase.

“As you wish, child. Just do not touch anything,” said Fiona, and Aedana was off, exploring into the darkness with a faint magelight cupped in her palm.

Fiona turned to her son, and regarded him with solemn, dark eyes. “I did not expect you to come alone,” she said at last.

He didn’t say anything. What was there to say? Esme could not bear to do this. She was not happy to see Aedana go; she could barely bring herself to say goodbye when they left Denerim. Aedana was blissfully, cruelly happy to be going, and the Queen would not show her tears. It was a mistake, he thought, but one he could not stop her from making.

There had been some talk of Morrigan accompanying them, but she had stayed behind in Denerim instead. The more of them all travelling together the more conspicuous they were, and this was not to be a public thing. No one was to know that the Princess of Ferelden was being schooled in an Orlesian mage tower. Also, he’d been sure that he could handle Aedana on his own, considering she was in such a happy mood to be leaving, finally, going to a Circle as she had set her heart upon. Esme needed Morrigan at home to comfort her more, even if she wouldn’t admit her sadness in front of Aedana.

“Aedana will be well taken care of here,” said Fiona, when he remained silent.

“I hope so. This is a terrible risk. If anything happens to her—”

“It won’t. I will look after her specially, myself,” Fiona assured him.

“I’d expect nothing less,” he replied. “I’d say I want you to treat her like she was your own child, but, well…”

“All of my charges here are like my own children,” Fiona said, pointedly obtuse. “We value mages here. We try our best keep them safe, and happy, and free. But I don’t need to sell you on it, do I? You have already brought her here, when you could have gone to the Chantry instead.”

“The Chantry was never an option.”

It should have been, and perhaps it would have been, if he hadn’t been raised within that institution and disliked it so much himself. Still, as the ruling monarchs of Ferelden, he and Esme ultimately owed their power to the Chantry. Divine Victoria could invoke her divine right to declare them illegitimate heretics, and order an Exalted March through Ferelden, if she really wanted to. Sending their daughter to a rival school of magic was a risk in the extreme.

“I must admit I was shocked that you wanted to send her here,” said Fiona. “I did not expect that you would ever trust me with such a thing. I remain uncertain as to why you made this decision.”

“Really? I thought it was obvious.”

She shook her head.

“I hoped that you would take special care of her, since she is your granddaughter.”

“You shouldn’t say that,” she said, looking away. “Not even here.”

“Why not?”

“It is foolish talk, for a King.”

“Fine. Tell me I’m foolish to hope that she will be safer here,” he said, “and I’ll take her back home again.”

“You must do what you think is best for your daughter. I cannot tell you what that is.”

He sighed. “She can’t stay at the palace. She’s already tried to run away several times over the past year. We just don’t know what to do with her, anymore. She has her heart set on going to a Circle.”

“But you are still terrified,” Fiona said. “I can see what you are thinking. Will she become an abomination? Will we turn her into a blood mage? Will you never see her again? All parents fear this when their children show an aptitude for magic.”

“Did yours?”

“I was an orphan. My parents were beyond concern.”

“I’m sorry.”

She smiled softly, then, and cautiously ventured to reach up one hand and place it on the side of his face. He’d grown a beard, and she rested her hand there, saying, “You look so like your father, you know. I think he would have been proud of you, though he wanted you to be spared the burden of being King.”

This unexpected show of affection left him frozen, not knowing what to do, or say. She didn’t know about his encounter with King Maric in the fade, and he wondered if it would be a kindness to tell her that he’d had that one chance to talk to his father, or a cruelty, considering Maric’s ultimate fate. He didn’t even know to what extent she had cared for his father, or Maric for her. He had so many questions, so many—

Suddenly, they were interrupted by a squeal of delight from somewhere up above in the hall, and looking up, Alistair saw Aedana’s face pop out over the edge of a balcony railing. “They have an entire dragon skeleton up here! It’s hanging up on strings and it looks likes it’s flying! You have go to come see this!” she said, beckoning to him with one impatient hand thrust through the balustrade.

“In a moment, darling,” Alistair said. She disappeared as quickly as she had appeared, running off to find another wonder.

“Just take care of her,” he said to Fiona. His mother had snatched her hand away from his face upon Aedana’s sudden appearance, and stood with both hands wrapped around her staff, which also seemed to function as a cane which she leaned heavily upon. He realized that he didn’t even know how old she was.

She nodded. “Of course.”

“Don’t let her be possessed by a demon. But also make sure she eats regularly. She has this habit of refusing to eat for days and then just destroying the entire cheese stores in one night, so… make sure she doesn’t do that. And don’t let her join a dragon cult. Don’t let her _start_ a dragon cult. Make sure she writes home at least once a month. We will send for her on holidays—tell her she must come home to visit whether she wants to or not. And she has to write to her mother, not just to me. You see, I’m her favorite parent, and she hates me, so that tells you something. But—”

“She will be fine,” said Fiona, interrupting him. “I will take good care of her. You have my word.”

He didn’t know what that meant. What did Fiona’s word mean, truly? Could he trust in her promises? Now that it came down to it, this seemed like the worst idea in the world. How could he abandon his daughter here, in some far off mage circle, with a oman who was a complete stranger to him? It was what Aedana wanted, but she was a child; a headstrong, foolish child at that.

But in the end he put his doubts aside. They had come all this way and there was no turning back, now. He wasn’t even sure he could drag her away, now that she had seen the hall of wonders, or whatever this museum was called.

He obediently went to view the dragon skeleton which had excited Aedana so. It was fairly small, more of a dragonling, really. But he refrained from scoffing at it and saying he’d fought dragons which were easily five times the size. It seemed impolite to trash Fiona’s collection in front of her, and it wouldn’t impress Aedana anyway.

He reiterated to Aedana that she must write regularly, and promised to see her again come the winter, when she would be expected home to celebrate Satinalia with her family. “If you are unhappy here and want to come home, you must write,” he said. “We’ll send someone to get you straight away.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” she kept saying to everything, but only half paying attention. When he tried to hug her goodbye, she looked embarrassed and quickly wiggled away, catching him in the gut with a bony elbow. “Don’t worry about me,” she said. “I’ll be just fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I imagine the lullaby as some sort of mash up between the Pan's Labyrinth lullaby and the vocal cue of the DAO main theme itself.  
> \- I associate Aedana with November Rain by Guns n Roses so that's why I had her born during a rainstorm in winter. I'm cheesy like that.  
> \- I didn't actually think I'd write a fic with Anora being executed but it seemed like the logical progression of the rivalry between her and this Cousland. And Anora herself would have had executed Alistair to prevent him from ever challenging her rule in the future (unless the Warden objects), so even though we never find out what happens to an Anora who is dethroned, this seemed like a good parallel.  
> \- Sorry about Dog. I wasn't gonna write his death either but couldn't really justify him being immortal.


	11. Betrayals

* * *

_ 9:64 Dragon _

* * *

 

 

The Chantry bells were ringing and the rain was falling on Denerim that day.

Morrigan stood on the high walls of the palace and watched the royal procession wend its way through the streets. Up here, all alone, no one could see her face. And that was just the way she wanted it.

No one could see the tears that mingled with the rain and the dark kohl she wore on her eyes to run in grey rivulets down her cheeks.

_ I hate them both, _ she thought.

Esmeralda she hated, for dying.

She had insisted for so many years that she would not do it. A promise, broken.

Twas many a month since Esme had been herself. Morrigan did not know when it started, because the Queen had not told anyone, not until twas plain for them to see. What began as worrisome bouts of absent mindedness grew into long periods of detached daydreaming. She started to stare out the window for hours without speaking. It became harder and harder to get her attention, till Morrigan could stand there shouting her name to no avail.

Esme stopped sleeping. They found her wandering the palace at night, carrying her sword for no reason. And then she stopped even going to bed at all.

She lived in her own world, now. What was in her head Morrigan could not imagine.

Alistair could, for he had experienced Corypheus’s false call twenty years ago, but Morrigan suspected that even he did not know the extent of what the true Calling felt like. He had been able to put Corypheus’ call to the back of his mind and ignore it, until it had disappeared like the lie it had been from the start. At least, that was how he told it, refusing to dwell on the fear and uncertainty of those days when the sky was ripped open, Esme was gone, and the world seemed likely to end.

Now, at fifty-three years old he was still remarkably hail and healthy, no old god’s song clouding his mind, and yet he was willingly going to die. The fool. The silly, sentimental, lovesick  _ fool.  _ He could have kept his Theirin ass on that throne for several more years, and let her keep Kieran a little while longer.

But, he had been following after Esme since the day Morrigan had met them both, and he would follow her to his death. In reaction to Esme’s deteriorated state, he had used the annual Landsmeet to announce that he was abdicating the throne and naming Kieran as his successor. Morrigan hated how unsurprised she was.

He’d told everyone that Kieran was his son, with the blood of King Calenhad in his veins, the last of the Dragon Kings, and in the tide of sentimentality that followed, the nobles had accepted the legitimizing of yet another Theirin bastard. Suddenly, Kieran had a surname and a title—Heir Apparent, Crown Prince—and Morrigan… Morrigan was the unfortunate complication that would make her son’s life difficult.

Twould be best for him if the people were allowed to forget that his mother was a mage. Twould be best for him if they forgot all about her and the rumors that had long surrounded her—rumors about her whispering dark magic into the ears of the King and Queen and influencing them towards evil. If she stayed as her son’s court mage or arcane advisor, or even simply as his mother, the people would turn against him, eventually. There would be another attempted coup like the one Anora had staged, only this time there would likely be no one to come to Kieran’s rescue. Though he had been well liked and respected for years, he was not adored as a Hero of the Fifth Blight the way Alistair and Esmeralda had been.

Maybe twould be best if she just disappeared. Not just now, perhaps, but later, after she could apologize to Kieran and explain that from now on he had to be strong without her, like she had been strong all her life, not having a real mother or father to care for her. Just Flemeth. He was a man full grown, and soon to be crowned King. He had to be strong. He could not rely on her, or anyone. Dependency was weakness. Love was weakness, even a son’s love for his mother. Maybe especially that.

She was good at disappearing; she had done it before and could easily do it again. She had never wanted to leave her son, to lose him to his Theirin heritage, but it had been a long time since he had been a boy whom she could order to remain hidden in his room. As a young man he had embraced his unofficial reputation as the last Theirin, the Bastard Prince, especially after Aedana had been sent away, and all hope of a legitimate Theirin heir had fled along with her.

So perhaps twas not all Alistair’s fault—he had not forced an unwilling Kieran into this position. And she had been the one to bring Kieran to the Ferelden court all those years ago, knowing this was a likely outcome. But twas easier to be angry at Alistair.

She told herself all of this and tried to pretend that her angry tears were rain. Just rain.

Down on the rain splattered streets, Kieran was riding in the procession, following his father to the gates of the city.

Esme had insisted on the parade. Twas all she would ask for, twas all she would even say. “There must be one last parade,” she mused, dreamily, sing-song. That was how she always sounded, now, as if her words were nothing more than lyrics to the old god’s music in in her mind.

And so of course Alistair had made sure there was a parade. The people were crying in the streets, because they loved their King and Queen so. Morrigan hoped it made her happy. She hoped twas worth it.

She hoped they all got the chills and died, the fools, going out to stand in the rain and weep just to see Queen Esme’s last dramatic show.

They would ride all the way to Orzammar and feast with the dwarves and then find somewhere deep and dark to die. Bards would write songs about it for years, insufferably. Tales would be told and would be wildly inaccurate. Rumors would crop up that the Warden King and Queen had not died but lived on in the deep, and in decades to come people would go down to see if they could find the fabled Heroes of the Fifth Blight… or their bones.

Morrigan thought of some adventurer thirty years from now looting Esme’s corpse, the bones of the Hero of Ferelden crumbling as her prized dragonbone armor was removed by hands that didn’t know what they were touching. Morrigan shuddered at the thought.

A small figure approached her, a wizened old elf woman dwarfed by a cloak. Twas Grand Enchanter Fiona.

The elf mage was something like seventy years old, but still thriving, having led the College of Enchanters ever since the end of the mage rebellion. She had come to Ferelden for the Landsmeet, not because she was part of the Ferelden nobility but because the King had sent her an invitation.

Apparently, Alistair had wanted his mother to be there when he announced that he was abandoning his people and going to the deep roads to commit suicide by darkspawn. Theirs was exactly the sort of mother-son relationship that Morrigan had never wanted with Kieran.

Fiona walked slowly, leaning on her staff, until she came to stand by Morrigan’s side.

Morrigan wondered what she wanted, why she wasn’t down at the gates, waiting to see the last of her estranged son before he went off gamely to get himself killed.

She wondered why Fiona wasn’t even doing anything to try to stop it, to attempt at least to exert some latent motherly influence to convince him not to go before his time had come.

But perhaps she had given up on him, as she had given him up as a baby. Morrigan could not pretend to understand a woman who would do such a thing. She would never have given Kieran up, never.

“I suppose you are taking an interest in me at this time because you want to speak about the new King,” Morrigan said to the silent, solemn elf woman. “I will only tell you to keep your distance. I think that two known mages in his family tree tis quite enough for him to have to deal with.”

Fiona tilted her head, seeming surprised that Morrigan should acknowledge her relationship to Kieran so openly.

“Look around,” Morrigan said, “we are quite alone up here. Everyone is weeping in the streets. They will make this a new feastday in the future, mark my words. The only question tis what they will call it.”

Fiona was silent for a moment, then said, “I do not plan to keep my distance, Lady Morrigan. Alistair has asked me to stay here and serve as a temporary advisor, representing the College of Enchanters, until Kieran appoints his own Court Mage. I will lend what advice and wisdom I have to the new King, and help him choose a replacement.”

That surprised Morrigan, and gave her more reasons to curse Alistair’s name. She was the Court Mage currently, though twas obvious that as Kieran’s mother she should step aside and allow a more neutral party to hold the position. Morrigan had expected that this would create an opportunity for the rival schools of Magi to vie for the young King’s favor, each offering up their best and brightest candidates for the position. But apparently, Alistair had decided that Fiona—who besides being an Orlesian elf and the founding head of the College of Enchanters, also just happened to be Kieran’s secret grandmother—was a  _ less _ controversial choice to help Kieran through this process than Morrigan.

She resented Alistair for not telling her this and letting her find out from Fiona, making her look foolish in the process. She had been thinking about disappearing into the wind just a few moments ago but now she felt insulted that Alistair thought Fiona should be there guiding Kieran towards choosing his own Court Mage, instead of her. Fiona, who had allowed Aedana to vanish like a wil-o-the-wisp as soon as she came of age.

It had been two years since anyone had heard a word from or about the headstrong young Princess, who had taken her leave of the mages and not returned to her parents. Alistair and Esme had blamed themselves, typically, but Morrigan blamed Fiona. She should have seen it coming and warned Denerim about what Aedana was planning to do, but she had not. She had failed at the last moment to be Aedana’s keeper, whether through ignorant blindness or wilful intent. Morrigan still suspected that Fiona knew where Aedana had gone but was keeping it from them out of the belief that Aedana was her own person and shouldn’t have to answer to her family. Morrigan would normally have agreed wholeheartedly, but not in this case. In this case she viewed it as a betrayal of their trust in Fiona. They had sent Aedana to her grandmother for safekeeping, not so that she could be encouraged in her petty teenage rebellion.

One day, when she realized her parents were dead and there was no hope of seeing them again, not even a glimpse, Aedana would regret running away. Morrigan was sure of this. She was sure because she knew the feeling acutely. The desire to have one more chance at reconciliation never went away.

“Will you tell Kieran who you really are?” she asked Fiona, betraying nothing of her inner turmoil.

“No,” Fiona said. “He does not need that burden. I never told Aedana, either. I still regret that their father had to know.”

Morrigan did not understand this woman. Not at all. “You could have had a relationship with your son, and now he’s going to die far too young, and your only regret tis that he was told the truth?” she marveled, not caring that her words were unkind.

“I have made many choices in my life that I regretted. But I cannot dwell too much on what might have been. Had I kept my son he might have loved me more, but he may have died far younger, lived harder. I cannot say truly whether one path was better than the other, for I can only see the one that was taken. I made that choice when I was barely more than a child myself.”

“A parent should never outlive their child,” Morrigan said. She certainly had no intention to outlive Kieran. Twas one thing she had always promised herself, fiercely. She would not be like Flemeth, not in any way. And she would certainly not be like Fiona.

“You need not pity me,” said Fiona.

“I do not,” Morrigan said. “I rarely have pity to offer those I find foolish.”

“Ah, you think me a lonely, foolish old woman. I suppose I am that. I am kept company by my memories and my regrets. I pray for your sake that you do not ever have to look back on your choices with remorse.”

“Tis far too late for that,” Morrigan said, ruefully.

She did not wait around for another rejoinder from Fiona. Instead, she transformed into a bird, a small kestrel hawk, and flew up into the rain. She soared over the city until she reached the gates, and then she perched there, watching.

Kieran looked terribly sad, though he was obviously trying to be strong as he sat on horseback and spoke with Alistair.

_ Alistair you almighty fool, _ she thought,  _ I shall peck out your eyes for this. No, I shall finally turn into the spider you so fear and devour you. Let Esme hack me to pieces with her precious sword if she can gather her faculties long enough. _

Morrigan flew down and landed on Esme’s shoulder. She cocked her head to the side and regarded the Queen through her limited avian eyes.

Esme was humming low under her breath, gazing out towards the far distant Southron hills, seeming oblivious to all else.

Kieran noticed the bird that had flown down onto the Queen and narrowed his eyes suspiciously, but he knew better than to start speaking to animals in front of the nobility. He just canted his horse up to Esme and said, “Auntie Esme? Can you hear me?”

Esme turned her head.

“Of course,” she said, “dear boy.” Kieran was one of the last people who seemed to be able to coax a coherent conversation out of her, these days.

He bid her a tearful goodbye, and Morrigan, perched on her shoulder, thought,  _ Oh my poor son… a king should not cry for all the world to see. _

But how could anyone blame him, truly? Esme had been a second mother to him, the kind of indulgent mother who gave him presents and played games and taught him how to train his mabari puppies to dance for treats. And now, to see her like this… twas a good thing that hawks did not cry.

When Alistair and Esme set off down the west road, Morrigan told herself that she would only follow for a little ways, flying at a distance. But as the miles wore on, she kept telling herself, just a little ways longer. She perched on Esme’s shoulder, listening to her hum, and wondered what it was that she heard in her head. She listened to Alistair’s endless one sided conversations, and wondered if he knew at all that the bird which followed them was her.

_ I should go back, _ she thought, over and over. All the way to Gherlen’s Pass.

One night they were camped in the Pass, and Morrigan was perched in a tree, never having dared to shift from the kestrel form she had assumed in Denerim.

She was sure the spot Alistair had chosen was the same spot they had all camped at least once during the Blight, thirty years ago, when they were on their way either to or from Orzammar.  _ Children, we were, _ she thought,  _ foolish children, all of us. _

Alistair was sleeping. She could hear his snores. But Esme did not sleep. She never slept anymore, instead pacing the camp or sitting up and humming every night. Several nights Morrigan had thought she would just wander off, alone, and Alistair would awake to regret that he had not tied her up like a wayward mabari.

Most Grey Wardens went to their Calling alone, but most went long before their minds deteriorated as much as Esme’s had. She had waited too long in silence, telling no one what was happening. She had stayed in Denerim until she was no longer herself. The splotches of the taint had begun to appear on her skin, the tell-tale traces of ghoulification beginning, and that was the only reason why Alistair had finally decided he must take it upon himself to lead her to Orzammar.

Twas the saddest thing Morrigan had ever witnessed. She didn’t know why she was subjecting herself to this. Esme was a shadow of herself, and even though Alistair appeared to be leading her, he clearly didn’t know what he was doing at all. If his answer to this was to walk them both to their deaths, then someone… someone had to do something to stop him.

Perhaps that was why she had been following them all this way.

Esme had never wanted to go to Orzammar, to the Deep Roads; that’s why she had stayed in Denerim until she was no longer in her right mind. That, and because she had been holding out hope that Aedana would come home to say goodbye.

_ I cannot let him take her down there now, _ was Morrigan’s thought, as she flew down onto the ground, transforming back into herself before her feet touched down.

Esme was standing just outside the light of the cooling campfire, gazing up at the sky and worrying something in her hands that Morrigan could not quite see.

Morrigan walked to Esme and stood there for a moment, hoping that she would turn to her, say something. At least give her as much of a clear look as she had given Kieran. She would take her away, she thought. When Alistair woke up he wouldn’t be able to find them. He would think Esme had wandered off and fallen off a cliff or been seized by some wild animal in the night. He would search but never find her. Maybe then he would go back to Denerim where he belonged.

“Esme,” she whispered. There was no humming, for a change, which gave her hope that maybe Esme was experiencing a moment of clarity.

Esme looked at her. When she turned, Morrigan saw that she was holding a blade. Not her sword, but a small dagger that would have been more at home in Zevran or Leliana’s hands.

Morrigan gave her a questioning look, and she smiled back, apologetically, like she would have smiled months ago, when she was caught daydreaming and no one thought anything of it.

“I knew it was you,” she said.

“What are you doing?” Morrigan asked, nodding towards the knife. “Finally going to stab Alistair in his sleep?”

Esme laughed. Then she grew serious. “Will you look after him for me?”

“No,” Morrigan said, flatly. “Absolutely not.”

That got another laugh. She sounded so lucid. Morrigan didn’t know why that scared her, but it did.

“He’s determined to die with you, anyway.”

“I know,” Esme sighed. Then she looked back up at the sky and said, “It’s so clear. I’ve been looking for all the constellations. I was always terrible at making them out. Aldous thought I was doing it to spite him.”

Morrigan had no idea who Aldous was, and didn’t much care. She looked up, following Esme’s gaze, and then pointed upwards. “There’s draconis.”

“That’s an easy one. Everyone can find that one.”

“Toth,” Morrigan said, pointing again. “That one tis more difficult.”

Esme nodded slowly. “Toth. I am toth,” she said, with deep sadness.

Morrigan understood. Toth was an old Tevinter word for one of the Old Gods, but the constellation bearing the name was in the shape of a man aflame, representing some ancient victim of the dragon’s wrath. Toth was the eternal object of the Old Gods’ torment. Some associated the constellation with the darkspawn, those who were still thralls to the buried dragons and their call.

“Toth,” Esme repeated, holding out the dagger.

Morrigan looked at it fully for the first time. Esme lifted it into her hands, and Morrigan realized it was an old blade that they had found during the Blight. “The Thorn of the Dead Gods,” she said, remembering how they had collected all three blades because Alistair had said they were valuable artifacts of Grey Warden history, as if he was the leading expert on Grey Warden history.

Legend had it that the three daggers were forged from the broken shards of the sword blade that had killed Toth, the Archdemon of Fire, who had started the Third Blight. Those daggers had been part of Esme’s prized showcase in Denerim… where she put all of the treasures she had collected during the Blight on display. She had always been such a sucker for old blades and mysterious trinkets.

As Morrigan looked at the old blade in her hand, Esme said, “I’ve wanted to die under the stars.”

Morrigan took a step back. “You can’t see the stars in the Deep Roads.”

“I know.”

“You don’t have to go to the Deep Roads,” said Morrigan.

Esme raised her arms, allowing the long sleeves which hid them to fall back.

In the starlight Morrigan could see the cloudy darkness of the taint spreading down her skin.

Esme had always had the most beautiful, smooth, clear brown skin. Her complexion indicated some Rivaini heritage, Morrigan had suspected, though no one knew for sure, since the Couslands had taken the details of Esme’s true parentage to their graves. The mark that Aedana had left on her wrist was ashen pale and shiny, a magical burn mark that resisted healing, as if the young Princess had branded her in retaliation for bringing her into this world.

The splotches that marred her arms now were dark, unnatural, mottled black and grayish green; like bruises, or mold growing under the surface. Morrigan might think it no more than a rash, if she didn’t know what it meant, what horrors it foretold. The skin would soon harden, or rot and slough off, until she no longer had skin but a patchy blighted hide. Morrigan had seen enough ghouls to know what would happen given enough time.

“I must go,” said Esme. “I must heed the Call.” That keening, musical edge to her voice returned. “I hear it all the time. I hear it now. I want to go, desperately. It takes everything I have not to run towards the nearest entrance to the Deep Roads. It’s like I can sense every single one, every abandoned dwarven city, every cave, every pool that goes too deep. I want to go down, I need to go down. Staying up here is torment.”

She took a deep breath, steadying herself, wrenching herself back from the abyss in her own mind.

“But I don’t want to die in the dark.”

“Then don’t.”

Esme gestured towards the dagger in Morrigan’s hands. “Every night I think I will end it, while I can still stand under the stars. But I can’t. I cannot seem to do it myself and I could never ask Alistair to do such a thing.” There was unnerving, startling clarity in her eyes, which reflected the stars as she looked into Morrigan’s, and said, “Dearest Morrigan… you understand, don’t you?

“You want  _ me _ to kill you?” Morrigan said, in disbelief. “Here? Now?”

“Tomorrow we’ll reach Orzammar. We’ll go inside and I’ll never see the sky again.”

“Absolutely not.” Morrigan threw the dagger onto the ground and stepped away from it.

“Please, Morrigan.” Esme bent down and picked it up. She held it out. “I don’t want to die in the deep… eaten by spiders, or ripped apart by darkspawn. I don’t want to watch Alistair die. I don’t want our bones to rot there forever, forgotten. I want my body to be burned, I want my ashes scattered along the Stormcoast, north of Highever. I want Alistair to rest in the the crypts in Denerim, with the rest of Ferelden’s kings. But I’m afraid that after tonight we won’t be able to turn back. Once I go down to Orzammar there will be nothing but the Calling in my head and I’ll forget the sky.”

“Tell Alistair all this,” Morrigan said, harshly, turning to gesture towards him.

She didn’t know how long he had been awake, but when she turned she saw that he was sitting up, watching them warily.

He had, obviously, heard enough to know what was going on. “Don’t listen to her, Morrigan,” he said, rising slowly to his feet. “You know she’s not in her right mind.”

“Well she’s right about one thing,” Morrigan said, turning her anger on him. “This idea to go down to the Deep Roads is complete idiocy. That’s a Grey Warden’s death, and you are not Wardens anymore.” She turned back to Esme. “I won’t kill you and I won’t let him take you down into the dark.”

“That is where I’ll end up, sooner or later,” said Esme. “That’s where I’ll go. I’ll have to.” She thumped the side of her head with one fist. “It’s in here. I can’t make it stop.”

“There must be another way.”

“There isn’t.” She thrust out the dagger towards Morrigan, hilt first. “Do it. I’m begging you. As a friend. As a lover. Whatever you feel for me, please, do it.”

Morrigan took the dagger.

“Don’t,” said Alistair.

Morrigan turned to him, angry. “You think that I would?” she asked, and then, with the dagger still clutched in one hand, she transformed into the kestrel again. She carried the blade in her talons, flapping her wings to lift herself and the weapon high above them.

As she soared through the air, Esme’s words rang through her mind, and she regretted ever following them this far. Is that what Esme would ask of her? Truly? After all these years? To deal the killing blow, to murder her?

In her youth she would have done it, she would have seen the suffering of a wounded, dying, doomed person and given them the quick end they begged for. She would have scoffed at anyone who hesitated to slide that knife between Esme’s ribs, saying twas sentiment and cruel, selfish love that made them unable to do the one thing that must be done.

But she was no longer young. Perhaps sentiment and love  _ had _ made her a weak fool, but Esme’s request was nothing short of a cruel betrayal. In the end she was still choosing to protect Alistair’s feeling above all else. She could not ask him to do such a horrible thing, but she thought,  _ Morrigan, oh yes, Morrigan—let the witch bear the burden. She feels nothing, not truly. She will do the dirty work, as she always has. _

Well, no more. Morrigan let the knife fall from her talons, dropping it into the dark depths of the mountain forest below. Let Esme search for it if she wanted to use it. Let Alistair be the one to kill her, if she could not do it herself, for Morrigan would have no part in this morbid threesome, not anymore.

* * *

At the campsite, Alistair cautiously approached Esme.

Morrigan’s departure had been abrupt and angry; she went from woman to bird in a cloud of ruffled feathers and then she was gone as if she had been a figment of dreams.

Esme reacted by simply bending down to pick up an errant feather, turning it over in her hand to marvel at it, but it disintegrated into mist after a moment, for it was made only of magic.

She had taken the knife with her, at least. He was glad of that.

“Esme,” Alistair said, softly. “I won’t force you to go to the Deep Roads. I only thought that’s what you wanted.”

“Do you think Morrigan will come back?” she asked, looking up to the sky once more.

He thought about it for a moment, then said, “No. You shouldn’t have asked her to do that. You do know that, right?”

He waited for a response, but she didn’t answer. She stood staring up at the sky, maybe searching for Morrigan, or watching the stars, but not looking at him. Perhaps she was ashamed of what she had just tried to convince Morrigan to do. Or perhaps she had forgotten all about the present situation and was lost in the song, listening only to the Call.

He sighed heavily. “We don’t have to go to Orzammar,” was all he could think of to say.

He hadn’t wanted to go there, anyway, none of this was  _ his _ idea. It had all been a plan she had laid out, years ago, when they talked about the inevitable end to their lives. It had been decades away and hadn’t seemed like something that would ever really happen, at least not to him. She had always been more consumed by thoughts of the Calling, while he’d been just trying his best to survive day-by-day as the King. But it was Esme who had talked about having a farewell parade through Denerim, it was Esme would talked about a banquet in the halls of Orzammar, it was Esme who said they should go together, breaking the Grey Warden tradition of a solitary death.

The idea of going to Orzammar seemed truly absurd to him, now, as if he had been sleepwalking this whole time, hiding from the grim reality of the situation by clinging to an old farce. Esme had never wanted to go to the Deep Roads at all, and any time she had mentioned it as a possibility it had only been a sardonic joke about the lunacy of the Grey Wardens and their macabre traditions. He had known that, but he hadn’t wanted to know it.

He missed Esme. The woman he had known for three decades had all but disappeared over the last few months and she had left him no actual directions for what to do about her mind being gone and her body slowly turning towards ghoulification.

“You want to go to Highever, you said?” he asked, grasping for ideas. Morrigan was gone, and Esme might as well have flown away with her for all he was going to get out of her now.

True, she had merely said that she wanted her ashes scattered along the coast near Highever, but if she was to die, better to let it happen in the privacy and comfort of the castle where she had been raised. Better by far than to lead her into the Deep Roads to be torn apart by Darkspawn.

She would need to be kept under quarantine in Highever, lest she infect or hurt the Couslands and their servants, but Highever was a better place to shelter her than the palace in Denerim, where it would be impossible to hide her away from the court. He did not want anyone in Ferelden’s capital to see her like this or to know that she was closeted in her rooms, dying ignobly. He would not let her memory be disgraced that way.

The thought of keeping her locked up anywhere, like some secret shameful madwoman in the attic, a dangerous terror from one of Varric’s romance novels, was appalling. And yet, so was the idea of killing her here and now, as she had begged Morrigan to do. He would not do that. He could not fly away like Morrigan had done, though part of him wanted to.

He knew well what Duncan had told him about the dangers of Grey Wardens lingering on above ground, turning into mad, raving ghouls who had to be put down by the other Wardens. He didn’t know if he could put a dangerous, violent Esme down like some common monster, but he did know that he wouldn’t leave her side until this was done.

Duncan would have said Esme should die before she could hurt others or spread the taint. He would have said that it was better to end it here and now, before she had lost all dignity and humanity, before she turned into a ghoul. He would chide Alistair for his weakness and his baseless hope that it wouldn’t come to that, in the end.

Then again, Duncan probably would never had approved of Alistair falling in love with his fellow Warden, or of abandoning the Wardens to become King, and he wouldn’t have approved of doing the Dark Ritual with Morrigan, and a great many other things Alistair had done. He would view them all as betrayals of the Warden code. And he would be right.

But Duncan wasn’t here to offer advice, approval, or condemnation. Neither was Maric, or Eamon, or Teagan, or anyone else to whom Alistair might have been able to turn to for guidance. He had asked his mother what he should do, back in Denerim, but Fiona had only told him that he must do what he thought was right.

“We’ll go to Highever, then.”


	12. Songs

* * *

_9:10-11 Dragon_

* * *

 

 

Along the northern coast of Ferelden the Waking Sea battered the beleaguered fishermen who dared to rely on the narrow channel for their livelihood. Skeletons of unlucky boats dotted the shores of the Storm Coast like dire warnings against venturing out to sea.

On a clear day, with a good spyglass, and a high vantage point, you might be able to see Kirkwall across the water; a tiny speck in the distance.

If you followed the sea up to the southern coast of the Free Marches, sailing past Kirkwall, you could eventually sail into port in the Rialto Bay and find yourself in Rivain or Antiva.

Once, long ago, a poor young fisherman from Highever went sailing all the way to Rivain on a merchant ship, looking to discover the bigger world and make his fortune. He didn’t find riches, just hard work, long days at sea, and eventually, in a marketplace in Dairsmuid, a girl he quickly fell in love with.

She came from a good family, a rich family, but she was restless and wanted to get out from under her parents’ thumbs. They were always telling her what she could and could not do. _Don’t do this, don’t say that, don’t wear that, don’t look at those people, don’t question the wisdom of your elders. Above all, don’t dally with the handsome young Ferelden sailor you met in the market. Above all, do not even think of doing that._

It was a situation straight out of a bard’s song, and that’s what made it seem like a good idea, at the time. Her parents wanted her to marry an older, rich, upstanding Rivaini man, and so she ran away with the penniless young Ferelden sailor instead.

When the captain of the merchant ship found out that one of his men had smuggled a Rivaini girl onboard the ship, they almost tossed the sailor overboard into the Waking Sea and threatened to take the girl back to her family, afraid that they would never be welcomed back into a Rivaini port after having “kidnapped” the daughter of a wealthy family. But the girl refused to go back to her family, insisting that she would fling herself into the sea after her lover if it came to that, and so they left them both in Ferelden, dumped off at the port in Highever, with the promise that no decent merchant ship or fishing vessel crew would ever take the sailor on after such hijinks.

Poor and unemployable, but young and stubbornly in love, they made their lives as independent fisherfolk along the Waking Sea, like many of the smallfolk of northern Ferelden. For the sailor this was a return to his old life, the one he had tried to escape. For the Rivaini girl it was a new and much harder life than the one she had fled. She had grown up with servants and silks and fine jewelry, not salt-soaked nets and clothes held together by patches and mismatched thread.

Still, to be dissatisfied with her new life would be admitting to herself that perhaps she had been wrong to run away from home and take up with a poor sailor from the cold, smelly southern kingdom known for primarily for its dogs and its war with Orlais. So she persevered and reminded herself that she was in love and that was better than all the comfort and wealth of the loveless marriage her parents had wanted for her.

One day, her handsome young Ferelden sailor died.

His small fishing vessel was dashed against the rocks during a sudden storm. She climbed up to the cliff overlooking their small, one room hovel and stood in the rain and the wind, looking out to sea, waiting for him to come home.

He did, eventually. He washed up to shore tangled in the fishing nets.

She burned him, because that’s what the Andrastans did, and even though she had not been raised that way, she had adopted her husband’s religion and customs along with his homeland.

She was alone in that land, now, alone except for the baby she carried inside of her. She had lost her husband, and their boat, in the storm, and so was twice widowed. She had no money to feed herself and would soon have no money to pay the rent on the small shack they had called home. She had no money to book herself passage back home, but she managed to ask an old sailor bound for Rivain to take a letter to her parents.

She told them that she was alone and pregnant and that she hated Ferelden, it was cold and rainy and she did not speak the language well. People looked at her funny and she didn’t feel safe. She apologized for running away and humbled herself with words she knew would appeal to her father’s pride while her plight might soften her mother’s heart.

When she received a letter back, she no longer carried the baby in her belly, but in her arms. A small, sleepy girl, half Ferelden, half Rivaini. The only good thing in her life, now, which had only become even harder and more thankless without her husband, whom she often wept for and cursed for dying all in the same breath.

Her parents wrote back to tell her that if she were truly repentant, all would be forgiven, and she would be welcomed home and a new marriage could easily be arranged for her. This youthful transgression did not have to ruin her entire life.

But she was not allowed to bring “the Ferelden’s baby” back home with her, and she must promise to be obedient and respectful and accept her parents’ wisdom in the future.

It was not an easy decision to leave her baby behind. It was the hardest thing she would ever do. But she was destitute and alone in a foreign land and she could see only death for herself and her child along the rocky shores of the Storm Coast, if she stayed.

The old sailor who had ferried her letters told her that he heard a rumor that the Mistress of Highever, Teyrna Eleanor Cousland, was desperate for a daughter but had only the one child, a boy, and had been unable to carry any more children to term. She was looking for another woman’s child to call her own. She would give the Rivaini girl money to buy safe passage home, in exchange for her daughter. The baby was a beautiful child and if Teyrna Cousland saw her, she would be sure to fall in love, he said.

And so she went to Highever Keep and it was as the sailor had said. Eleanor Cousland, still frail and wan from her last miscarriage, looked down at the tiny, underfed child bundled in rags, and her heart would belong to no other.

When she held the baby, Eleanor said, “We shall name her Elissa.”

“She already has a name,” said the woman who had once been her mother. “Esmeralda.”

Teryn Cousland looked like he might say something, then remained quiet, no doubt deciding that arguing with the girl who was giving them her child was a pointless endeavor, since they could do whatever they pleased once she left.

“Esmeralda, that’s a beautiful name,” said Eleanor.

“Promise you won’t change it.”

She did not tell them that it was her own name. They had not asked her name. They had been little interested in her and her story, only knowing that she wanted to return to Rivain and didn’t want the child. It sounded so cold, to say she did not _want_ her daughter, because she did. But she looked around at Highever castle and pragmatism whispered to her that she could never give her girl such a life, not on her own. She did not weep in front of the Couslands or beg to be allowed to live as a servant in their halls. She would not do that, even had they offered it.

“I promise,” said the Teyrna, and though Esmeralda had little reason to trust the Ferelden woman, she believed her.

 _She’s not my daughter anymore,_ she told herself as she took the payment and made her leave. _But she has my name and I will always be her mother._

Esmeralda sailed home to Rivain, back to her parents and their fine house. She washed the stink of Ferelden from her skin and discarded her fishwife’s rags. Soon after, she was married to a respectable Rivaini merchant and her life as the romantic runaway seemed like one that had been lived by another.

In a tavern in Ferelden, an old sailor who also fancied himself a bard, wrote a song about a sad-eyed Rivaini girl he had once known. He sang it for whoever would listen, because her plight had touched him. He had thought to himself that if he were not already married with too many children to feed, he would have offered himself to the girl who seemed far too proud and refined for the life of poverty and hard labor she had been living. But alas, all he could do was take her to the Couslands, and give her a place on a ship back to Rivain. He still thought about her, and her sad story, for a long time after she had been safely delivered home again.

The song he wrote as he dwelt upon her was a sad ballad about two lovers who defied the will of the Maker, and were punished by the storm for their forbidden love. No one liked the song much. He called it “The Ballad of the Rivaini Girl” but it did not catch on. Perhaps in the hands of a more skilled songwriter with a better singing voice and more deft fingers to play the lute, it would have become a favorite for stormy nights when the Waking Sea smashed fishermen’s boats to pieces. “That reminds me of a song,” someone might say, “about a girl who had to give up her child after the sea stole her husband.”

Or maybe it was a tale too real to be romantic. Too many people had lost loved ones to the sea. Too many babies had perished in infancy due to poverty and malnutrition, and too many young widows had abandoned their children to the Chantry rather than see them suffer that fate. There were too many orphans. No one wanted to hear a song about that. People would rather hear a song about King Calenhad, or Andraste, or the Hero of Ferelden.

 

* * *

_9:64 Dragon_

* * *

 

 

When Esme was a girl she had loved to venture out to the seashore. Highever was not far from the edge of Ferelden, and the sea could be seen from the ramparts of the castle. Though the beaches were rocky and wild and the water was cold and unforgiving, it was the only shore she knew. Books may tell of white sand beaches with gentle lapping waves of bath-warm water, but she only knew the storm.

Now that childhood was far behind her, and she had traveled far beyond Highever, she could attest to the reality of those sandy beaches. But she still preferred the pebbled coastline, and the foreboding cliffs of northern Ferelden, to any gentle sandy slope.

It was home.

She was home.

She had come home to die.

It was a cowardly thing for a Grey Warden to do… to linger on, wrapped up in furs, watching the tide come in and out. A true Grey Warden would have taken up her sword and gone into the deep dark to die, as she had intended. But she had turned her back on the Wardens long ago. It was the Queen of Ferelden, not its Hero, who lingered at home. Waiting.

The Calling was difficult to ignore, though.

It was always there, now, a never ending tinnitus of incomprehensible whispers overlaid by an ethereal, inhuman song. Though she could not understand it, she felt the call in her blood, her bones, her skin. Her teeth vibrated with the echoes of it.

The thunder of the waves against the cliffs was almost enough, at times, to drown out the music in her head. But she could not go out to the coast as often as she would have liked. For the most part she remained confined to one wing of the castle, and saw only Alistair, Fergus, and a young mage that had served Fergus and his family and now was called upon to attend to the dying Queen. He mixed up soothing elixirs for Esme to “quiet her tormented mind.” She didn’t like the elixirs—though they did indeed quiet the Calling and help her sleep, she felt as if they dulled her connection to the present even further, and made her body feel so sluggish that all she could do was lie abed all day, drifting in and out of consciousness, lost in memories, and unsure what was real and what was the Fade. The mage would come by every day to administer the medicine and apply ointment to the sores that now covered most of her skin, and sometimes her memory would slip and she would ask why this stranger whose touch she did not much care for was there, and not Morrigan, until she would remember that Morrigan had flown away into the night.

She had managed to drive Morrigan away with her weakness, with her cowardice. She wondered what it would take to drive Alistair away, as well.

When Alistair had brought her to Highever, Fergus had welcomed them, of course, though he was surprised. He had been at Denerim when they departed for Orzammar and had wept to see his little sister for the last time. It was obvious that his relief at seeing her again warred with his concern that she would bring the blight sickness with her to overrun Highever. Now that her Joining was no longer protecting her from manifesting the taint, the chance that she could spread it to others like any other blight stricken fool clinging to life was high. She could not be allowed around her nieces and nephews and their children, so she was tucked away into a wing which had been closed down for years, because the stones still held the memories of the slaughter that had taken place there. Ironic, she thought, that she would still die here with the Cousland ghosts when she had been the only one to survive all those years ago.

She had been counting down the years, waiting in dreadful anticipation ever since the twentieth anniversary of her Joining, since most Wardens had their Calling sometime between twenty and thirty years after initiation, if they did not fall in battle first.

She had been resolved to live the life she had, while she had it, and no longer chase after cures. And since she put aside her sword and shield and embraced her role as Queen, she had all but ensured that she would live long enough to hear the Call. From 39 to 52 years of age she had marked every anniversary of that day at Ostagar, and thought, _another year, aren’t I a lucky girl._

Twice lucky, in fact, since she also marked each year that Alistair betrayed no signs of succumbing to the taint. He had six months on her, and by all calculations should have been hearing the song loud and clear already by the time she detected a stray whisper.

But that was not the case. He was blessed by Calenhad, some said, as if they were ancestor-worshiping dwarves, which they weren’t… though if he did have his ancient forebear to thank for a bloodline that was resistant to the taint, that was as good a reason to pick up ancestor worship as any, she thought. It gave Esme hope for their daughter. Perhaps, although Aedana bore the taint as well, she was not doomed to die young.

Thinking of Aedana brought on more inevitable pangs of remorse. Esme did not regret Aedana’s existence, of course not, but she did regret the selfishness behind her reasons for wanting a child in the first place. Had she wanted a child, or a miracle?

As a girl she’d thought she would never marry, never be a wife and mother, and somehow she had managed to become both, regardless. She had thought it would all just work itself out once the hard part was over. The hard part never ended, though. It just got harder and harder and harder, until Aedana was running away from her into the arms of strangers.

 _I was not meant to be a mother,_ she often thought. That must be why it was so hard for her. She wished she could have found her way around to being good at it, but there just wasn’t the time. Aedana went from troubled baby to troubled toddler to troubled child to… gone, and it had all seemed like the blink of an eye, not the span of a decade.

In the years since Aedana had gone away to the Circle, she had grown up. She was now twenty; the same age Esme had been when she had ended the Blight, when she’d gotten married, and become the Princess Consort and Warden Commander of Ferelden. If she had been old enough to do all those things at twenty, then certainly Aedana was old enough to be called a grown woman, old enough to make her own way in the world.

Esme still thought of Aedana as a child, though. She couldn’t imagine her doing all the things Esme has done at her age. The fate of the world in her impetuous hands? Not likely.

Aedana had come home for mandatory scheduled visits and written dutiful monthly letters in the years she had spent at the Circle. Though they were written in Aedana’s own hand, the letters seemed to be mostly Fiona’s doing; a chore she imposed on her young charge. The letters arrived with a punctuality that didn’t seem like Aedana at all. She provided updates on her progress, casually listing new spells she was learning and naming new friends she had made, and describing other minutiae of her life as an apprentice mage as if floundering for something, anything to say, to fill the page as required. Her salutations were formal and distant, her well wishes perfunctory.

When she was eighteen the letters ceased and the holiday trips home stopped. Aedana had left the Circle to travel; a fact they learned only from Fiona, who wrote to tell them that Aedana had decided that she had learned all she could from Fiona and her mage associates and as she was “an adult” had decided to strike out on her own. She was not _all_ alone, not strictly, as she had taken a few of the other young apprentices with her, those who were her “particularly close and loyal friends” as Fiona described them. It was meant to reassure, no doubt, to tell them that Aedana was not wandering into danger all by herself. Esme, reading between the lines, had thought it sounded like Aedana had abandoned the College of Enchanters to start her own cult.

It had been two years since they’d had any word of her, but somehow Esme did not think she had managed to come to a bad end, not yet. Each of the last Feastdays she had still prepared gifts for Aedana, in case she wandered in through the palace gates, deciding to take a break from her coming-of-age to come home. Each time, she had had to put the gifts away, unopened. Alistair had watched her, sadly, but silently, and she wondered if he was thinking about the years he had waited for her to stop wandering and come home. Well, she _had_ come home, and so would Aedana, one day. Like mother, like daughter… in that one way, at least, she had hoped.

Now, she knew that she wouldn’t be alive to see it.

She had denied the Calling for a long time, because she did not want to die, but also because she did not want to die not knowing where Aedana was. She didn’t want to die without ever seeing her daughter again, without getting a chance to say goodbye. The last time had been in the autumn shortly before Aedana’s eighteenth birthday. She had been home for a visit and had said nothing about her plans to leave the College, had said nothing about travelling the world, though undoubtedly she had made up her mind to do it, already.

Every day as the Calling grew louder, Esme’s hopes grew fainter. Perhaps one day Aedana _would_ come home, and would only find her half-brother there, but her parents would be long gone. Would she be happy? She had certainly said enough times that she wanted them to die, when she was a child, but some ever hopeful part of Esme thought that she might miss them, when they were gone. She hoped, also, that Aedana would not make troubled for Kieran. She had rejected her role as Heir Apparent long ago, even before it had been obvious that Ferelden would not accept her, and never said a word afterwards that indicated she would ever want to steal the throne back from her half-brother. Still, who knew what ideas she might pick up out there in the wide, woolly world. If she went up to Tevinter and saw how mages ruled the land, she might regret giving up her birthright so eagerly.

When Alistair had finally recognized Kieran officially at the Landsmeet, he had not said anything about Aedana’s whereabouts, and no one had asked. The nobles of Denerim wanted to forget her as much as she wanted to forget them. If she did return years later to make a claim, it was likely many people would be surprised that she was still alive or that she had ever existed in the first place, thinking the story of the mage princess was just a myth.

 

* * *

 

Esmeralda Cousland was a name that had traveled far and wide.

They knew the name in Rivain and the story of the remarkable woman who bore it: Hero of Ferelden, Savior of the Grey Wardens, Dragon-Slayer, Blight-Ender, Queen.

There lived an elderly woman in Dairsmuid, the wife of a wealthy merchant who had outlived her husband and who now ran the family business. She was a well-respected matriarch, blessed with many children and grandchildren. She happened to share a name with the famous Esmeralda. Her family knew that she liked to hear stories of the Hero, and her sons brought her portraits of the Queen of Ferelden back on their merchant ships.

She hung them prominently up on display in her study.

 _“Portrait of the Princess-Consort On Her Wedding Day,”_ a painting of a demure young woman, white pearls in her dark hair.

 _“Portrait of the King and Queen On the Eleventh Anniversary of Their Marriage,”_ with the Queen in her red gown and dragonbone breastplate, proudly holding the sword which had killed the archdemon.

There were four more portraits following these, as a new painting of the queen was released every fifth year after that. In one of the portraits, dated 9:50 Dragon, the Queen held a young girl on her lap, and the brass plate on the picture frame read, _“The Queen and Her Daughter, the Princess Aedana.”_ The princess was absent from the subsequent pictures, as she had also become absent from the news and gossip from the south. People said she had died of some wasting sickness or youthful mishap, as children often do.

If anyone questioned their matriarch’s affinity for the distant, storied Queen of Ferelden, they didn’t say anything. No one remembered how in her youth, she had disappeared from home for over a year, run away to Ferelden with a lover. Her parents were long dead and her Rivaini husband had never gossiped about his wife’s past with others. We all have our rebellious phases, he knew, and he didn’t think any less of her for it, but nor was he interested in the details of her life before him. He respected the silence she held about her youthful indiscretions, and if he ever guessed that she had left a child behind when she came home from Ferelden, he said nothing about it to her or the children she bore him.

The Lady Esmeralda had just celebrated her 77th birthday when she received a strange visitor.

She sat in her study, surrounding by her merchant’s ledgers and books and all the other odds and ends of her life as a merchant’s wife and then as a merchant’s widow. Soon, she knew, she should hand over the control of the business to her children, but work kept her young, it kept her active. She did not sail around the world, but from her study she was connected to all the ports where her ships sailed and she was the mistress of her own small corner of Thedas. She had been in control of her life for decades, now, and she feared the helplessness of dotage.

She did not see the young woman enter, which was curious, since her steward would usually alert her of visitors at the door, and even so, it was far too late in the evening for him to admit anyone without an appointment. She might have mistaken the girl for one of her servants, but she knew all their names and faces, and this girl did not have a look of subservience or respect about her.

When Lady Esmeralda first noticed the intruder, she was already standing in the room, her hands folded behind her back as she surveyed the portraits of the Ferelden Queen on the wall.

The girl looked about twenty, though it was harder for Esmeralda to guess the age of those younger than her, these days. A person could be anywhere from sixteen to forty and look about the same. Maybe that was just because her eyesight was going. She had to hold magnifying lenses up to her eyes to read, these days. But bad eyes or no, she could see that the girl had dark skin with a wash of reddish freckles all over, even down her arms, and her hair was curly but cut short, shaved on the bottom half of her head and bleached a near white blond where it was allowed to grow freely on the top. A tattoo of a dragon was inked along the base of the girl’s skull and down her neck, spreading over her left shoulder and down her arm, which was exposed because her top was made up of merely a leather bodice and a bright red kerchief draped diagonally across her chest.

She turned, as if sensing that she had been seen, even though Lady Esmeralda had been too shocked to speak. She smiled, a surprisingly disarming smile for an intruder, and said, “You’re a fan, I take it?”

Lady Esmeralda immediately assumed that she must be a thief, an insouciant gutter rat from the docks come to plunder the grand house and murder the old lady within. She began to stand, to call for her steward, or one of her useless grandsons, for help.

“You still dream of her. You can still remember the smell of her head when she was a day old,” said the girl, and it brought her up short, drying the shout in her throat. “You go to the fade to hold her.”

“I beg your pardon?” Lady Esmeralda said, insulted though she didn’t quite understand why.

“You should be more careful about what you do in the Fade,” said the girl. “Nothing is real and nothing is private, not really. When you hold the memory of your daughter you are really holding a spirit who has read your innermost desires and taken on the form of your regret.”

Lady Esmeralda shook her head. She did not believe in the Fade, and spirits, and all that sort of nonsense. She had not paid attention to the teachings of the Chantry in a long time. In Rivain the religion of the Andrastans was not widely followed, as the Qun still held sway in many parts of the land. Where she lived in Dairsmud there was a Chantry and a small number of devotees, and there had once been a Circle of Magi before it was Annulled. But that religion only reminded her of her youthful detour into Ferelden, so she was uninterested in it. They Chantry sisters were obsessed with the fear of demons and their stories about the Maker and the Golden City, but she had no magical aptitude to worry about, that curse that both the Qunari and the Andrastans wrang their hands over. She followed no religion and believed in nothing but the power of coin, and trade, and the independence that a thriving business could grant even a widow.

“Who are you, and what is your business here? Who let you in?” she asked, reaching for her cane. It was richly polished hardwood cane, solid, with a round silver top that was good for cracking the heads of impudent youths.

“My name is Aedie. I let myself in.”

“I see that. I notice you did not answer all of my questions.”

“I heard that you were especially fond of the Queen of the Ferelden. I like to talk to spirits, and they like to talk about secrets. The things people only allow themselves to dwell on in dreams. I told you, you should be more careful.”

“And what do you care about my collection?” Lady Esmeralda asked, motioning to the portraits. “These are reprints you can buy from most any Ferelden art dealer. If you are thinking of stealing them, you would do better to rob the palace at Ferelden, where they hang the original portraits.”

“I’m not a petty art thief,” the girl said, laughing. “I’m the Princess of Ferelden.”

“Pish,” was Lady Esmeralda’s automatic reaction. Perhaps she was dreaming, she thought. Too much time spent looking at those portraits and wondering what had become of the Princess, whom no one talked about anymore. Yes, that was probably it.

“You don’t see the resemblance?” the girl asked, glancing over her shoulder at the portrait of the Queen and the Princess at 5 years old.

Lady Esmeralda could not say that she did. This tawny, freckled child with her bleached curls and the inked dragonling winding around her neck and arm looked nothing like the Queen, or the young child sitting on her lap. But her smile as she stared at the woman whose home she had invaded did, in a way, resemble the young King in the portrait with his hand on Queen Esme’s shoulder. As if they were both proud of some mischief.

“Perhaps you take after your father,” Lady Esmeralda said, raising her eyeglasses to peer at the girl. “But that does not explain why you are here, in my study, where you were most certainly not invited.”

The girl laughed again. “You are very concerned with decorum. Long lost granddaughter or not, it’s rude of me to show up uninvited and you won’t abide it. I suppose that’s… well, it’s something.”

“I have several grandchildren, too many to keep track of, but none of them lost,” replied Lady Esmeralda.

“No, of course not. Though my mother would disagree. She thinks I’m lost.”

“Stop speaking in riddles and tell me what you want, girl.” She lowered her eyeglasses, and her hand as she spoke inched towards the bell she kept on the edge of her desk. The girl’s eyes narrowed as she followed her movements closely. But Lady Esmeralda paused instead of grabbing the bell, betraying some curiosity. She still gripped her cane in her other hand, and that made her feel safe.

“Alright. Forgive me,” said Aedie. “I thought there would be more… I don’t know, discussion? That perhaps you cared about the daughter you abandoned, or that you would want to know about me? But you seem more interested in my taking up space in your study than anything else, so I’ll state my business and be on my way, hopefully without fuss.”

“Do, please.”

“I am a mage,” she said, proudly enunciating each word as if such a forthright declaration was still unusual for her to make. Then, more rapidly, she said, “A blood mage, actually, and I was hoping you would give me your blood. As a favor. A gift, perhaps.”

Lady Esmeralda finally did stand, at that moment, raising herself up with great dignity, leaning ponderously on her cane. “You are a charlatan,” she declared. “If I ever thought it possible that the Princess of Ferelden might indeed show up in my home unannounced, I have now been disabused of that notion.”

“Just a small vial; enough for an elixir I am working on. It’s the only ingredient I’m missing. Blood of the mother,” said the strange girl, with a wide smile, her hands out spread in a universal gesture of harmlessness.

“Get out, before I call someone to come take you away and throw you into a dungeon cell.”

“I’ve come all this way.”

Lady Esmeralda reached for the bell, but strangely, it was no long on the desk where it had been only a moment ago. She looked at the girl, whose hands were still empty, then back at the spot on the desk, and then decided to scream for help. She pounded her cane on the floor and shouted the name of her steward, and then the names of her grandsons who were still young enough to be at home. But no one came, and the girl just stood there, watching her with large brown eyes that seemed, suddenly, surreally, to remind her of a young man she’d known a long time ago but whose face she had forgotten…

And then she awoke with a start. She was sitting in her desk chair, slumped uncomfortably across the paperwork she had been attending to. The candles were burned down to puddles of wax, her bell sat just where it had always done, and her cane leaned against the arm of the chair. She looked around her study and saw no one there, no one looking at her except for the painted eyes in the faces hung on the walls.

She was clutching a small unopened scroll in one hand, and she dropped it onto the desk. As she did so, she was startled to notice that one of her fingers was wrapped up in gauze. She unwound the bandage and saw that the tip of the finger had been pricked. It was still tender and red, and the gauze was smeared with fresh blood.

She stood as fast as her old bones allowed, clumsily knocking her cane aside, her breath caught in her throat, and she looked wildly around the room for the intruder. But she was quite alone. She was afraid to ring the bell, or to call for anyone, lest she find she was still dreaming and wake up once again slumped over her desk.

Lady Esmeralda thought again of the scroll she had been holding, and curiously went to pick it up. She couldn’t remember having seen it before her odd dream, just as she could not remember having pricked her finger. There was no official seal on the scroll; it was held closed with only a plain red ribbon and a dollop of unmarked wax.

She cracked it open and wrinkled her brow at the contents. It was a poem titled “The Ballad of the Rivaini Girl,” and a note which said:

> _I wouldn’t have found your dreams in the Fade without first finding these lyrics. I don’t know how the tune went, and I doubt it’s ever been played outside one pub in northern Ferelden. The man who wrote the song is long since dead. I’ve always wanted someone to write a ballad about me, so I thought you might like it, even if you are old and stodgy now. Whatever happened to the girl in this song, who ran away from home, for love? Oh well. Thank you for the blood._

The note was unsigned. After reading over the poem, which was a flowery though not very well rhymed summary of her youthful indiscretions, and her hardships in Ferelden, Lady Esmeralda looked up at the portrait of the daughter who was not hers anymore and the princess whose name had disappeared from Thedas.

The news that the King and Queen had left Denerim and gone to meet the traditional Grey Warden end in the Deep Roads did not reach Dairsmud for several more months.

By then Lady Esmeralda’s mysterious finger wound had healed and if not for the scroll with the poem and the odd note she might have convinced herself that the strange mage-girl who had appeared in her study one night had been nothing more than a dream. But even with the physical proof she could unroll and study at her desk, she could not understand what had happened, if the girl was truly who she claimed to be, or what she had wanted with her blood.

When she heard the news that told her Queen Esme must almost assuredly already be dead far below the earth in Ferelden, by now, buried with the bones of the ancient dwarves, she wept at the thought that she had lived so long, and Esme’s life had been so short, and now there would be no more portraits, and no more songs.


End file.
